


Should You Choose To Remember

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., The Used
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He peers confusedly up at his rescuer in a way that he hopes doesn't make him look like a complete idiot or a damsel saved by her knight in shining... um, t-shirt, despite the fact that this is essentially what has just happened. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He opens his mouth to speak. What he means to say is thank you. What falls out instead is, "Who are you?" </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Me? I'm your fucking fairy godmother," the guy drawls, lighting a smoke. "Who are you?" </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>In a moment of truly dazzling social dexterity, Gerard promptly forgets his own name.</i></p><p> </p><p>Normality is a funny thing. Gerard-the-awkward-kid-who-works-in-a-store had more of it than he knew what to do with. Gerard-the-equally-awkward-kid-who-needs-his-life-saving-on-a-regular-basis has none at all anymore and would quite like it back, thank you very much. He doesn't know what happened to his life, but he's positive that Frank had something to do with it. What's only making things worse is that he's equally positive he knows Frank from somewhere – if he could only remember where from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should You Choose To Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [jedusaur](http://jedusaur.livejournal.com), [oanja](http://oanja.livejournal.com) and [heyhoolou](http://heyhoolou.livejournal.com) for all their help with this ♥ written for [Bandom Big Bang](http://bandombigbang) 2011 @ livejournal. [Mix](http://pseudopatient.livejournal.com/4129.html) by [seimaisin](http://seimaisin.livejournal.com); [art](http://pseudopatient.livejournal.com/4492.html) by [arabel](http://arabel.livejournal.com).
> 
>  **Edit!** podfic by [croissantkatie](http://croissantkatie.livejournal.com) is [here](http://croissantkatie.livejournal.com/27975.html).

_"This is your story, should you choose to remember / well, I hope that you do." _  
_\--Emilie Autumn ___

_  
_

**.prologue**

He likes to walk the streets after dark.  
   
He likes the way the throb of a million engines settles against his bones, and the way it tangles with the cold air seeping into his lungs. The synthetic yellow-orange glow of the streetlamps lights him up in an unholy halo, and all the world’s sleaze and grime melts away into the thick, luscious swathes of shadow. He smiles, and there’s something just the wrong side of cruel in the curve of his mouth and the bright flash of sharp teeth. In the dark, he’s less human than he ever was. He’s _more_ , fast and strong and fucking invincible. Power runs in his blood, sweet and heady, whispering to him in the silence between his heartbeats. No one fucks with him, _especially_ not after the sun goes down.  
   
He stops dead.  
   
And just like that, there it is: a whisper of breeze, carrying the finest strand of scent. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply and tasting the air – paint and sweat and cheap beer and stale smoke and a faint, chemical twist of dye _._ Not quite like it was last time, and far too slight for any human to detect, but there’s no doubting it. It’s him.  
   
He opens his eyes again, raking them through the thick drifts of shadow and small islands of harsh light. It’s late and the streets are nearly deserted, and it takes him all of four and a half seconds to spot what he’s looking for: a kid on the other side of the street, maybe nineteen or twenty, give or take, but even he can’t tell from this far away and in this light. He melds himself into the shadow of a parked pickup truck, and he watches. As the kid passes a streetlight, he catches a glimpse of dark hair, dark clothes, a face so pale it’s practically _glowing_ , dark smudges for eyes. A bag over his shoulder, hands sunk deep into his pockets, breath billowing out in clouds. He’s not really _going_ anywhere, just wandering about aimlessly, wide-eyed and naive and so oblivious to the swell of hatred directed at him from across the street. He’s so alone, so helpless and unsuspecting; it would be _so easy_.  
   
No. The temptation still sings in his ears, but he resists. _Not yet, not here. Not like this_. The opposition hasn’t even found him yet this time; there’s no fun in winning a one-horse race. _Not tonight_ , he promises himself, turning reluctantly away and slipping into the dark. But the anticipation won’t leave him, throbbing in his ears like war drums.  
   
 _Game, set_.   
      
   


**_.one_ **

Gerard is not, by nature, a violent person.  
   
He’d also kind of like to keep his job. Sure, it’s nothing but a big fucking dead end and he’s hardly making millions, but it pays _well enough_ , and all things considered, it could definitely be worse. It’s by far the most appealing way of scraping together the money for art school.  
   
Unfortunately, both of these things – the non-violence and the continued employment – are currently sliding deeper and deeper into a black pit of jeopardy as he wrestles with the urge to punch the woman striding around the store like she owns the damn place. She’s wearing an aggressively pink sundress and her hair is an immaculately sculpted heap of hairsprayed caramel curls, and Gerard’s not quite sure how it happened, but he’s ended up following her about like the fat chihuahua tied to the bench outside. She strides about, pulling canvases and brushes and paints from the shelves and piling them into his arms as he staggers along in her wake. She clearly has no idea what she’s looking for – eying her immaculately manicured nails and frankly terrifying shoes, Gerard can’t help but make the uncharitable but shrewd assumption that she’s a bored trophy wife who fancies herself as an artist. At first, he’d tried to make helpful suggestions about where to start (because, hey, who was _he_ to judge a book by its cover? Maybe she was a genuinely sweet person on the inside), but she’d given him a look intimating that she thought he should have been drowned at birth, and carried on picking things up apparently at random. He’s no great shakes with numbers, but he starts to mentally stack up the prices of the vast assortment of stuff he’s carrying and his eyebrows nearly disappear into his hair. He’s also feeling distinctly short of breath (which is ridiculous, what the _fuck_ ), and vows to quit smoking for the third time this month.  
   
Finally, when he can no longer see where he’s going and his knees are wobbling dangerously, she announces that that should be enough to start with, and then looks expectantly at him. He closes his eyes and counts to five _really slowly_ , then begins to make his somewhat unsteady way back towards the counter. There’s a hairy moment when he nearly trips over a cunningly-placed easel, but he regains his balance and deposits everything on the counter with a sigh of relief. He thinks he sees a smirk flicker across Bob’s face as he methodically starts to scan and bag, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Actually, he feels more than slightly resentful that Bob gets to sit here in the squashy chair while he plays at being a glorified pack horse, but he doesn’t dare complain. Bob’s awesome and he’s been working here longer than Gerard has, and Gerard is more than slightly in awe of him, but Bob’s also sort of a ninja. Gerard _really_ doesn’t like to annoy him.  
   
She finally leaves, paying the ridiculous bill with a glossy credit card and a shiny lipstick smile. Gerard can’t restrain himself any longer, and launches into a blistering tirade complete with dramatic arm motions to convey a _furious rage_ of _furies untold_.  
   
Bob grunts noncommittally in response and returns to the magazine he’d been halfway through reading before she came in. Bitching at the world in general doesn’t _help_ , of course, but it makes Gerard feel better. Eventually, he tires himself out, and flops into the slightly-less-squashy chair, still simmering with righteous indignation. He looks slightly longingly around him. Really, it’s an incredible feat of mind over matter that he hasn’t taken to casual theft yet – spending five days a week surrounded by so much enticing art stuff is doing wonders for his willpower. It’s so _unfair_. His mind starts to wander; if _he_ could walk in here with all the money in the world, he knows _exactly_ what he’d go for – new copics, another tube of that fantastic electric blue paint that’s an absolute bitch to find anywhere but here, a new 0.1mm fineliner to replace the one he accidentally dropped down a drain last week, a set of those stupidly expensive watercolor pencils he’s had his eye on for months, some of that black drawing ink that makes the best fucking shadows _and_ comes out of the carpet when you spill it...  
   
Reluctantly, he returns to the real world – the one in which he has no money for things he wants but doesn’t need. But the one in which, on the bright side, there’s only another five minutes before they’ll close the store and he can finally go home. He really could have done without the unwanted reminder of where he is _now_ versus where he used to be so sure he’d be at this stage in his life. It’s been a long, irritating day and he just wants it to be over already. All of his frustration has softened into gloomy apathy, and he’d quite like to just curl up in bed and wait for the whole world to just go the fuck _away_ for a while. Being able to do exactly that hangs just within his reach, and he forges single-mindedly towards it as Bob locks the cash register and he turns off the lights. He locks the door behind them, says goodbye to Bob, and then it’s all over for another day. And thank _fuck_ for that. Home means a drink or three, some shitty TV, something to eat, a long-awaited cigarette in peace, and if he tries that alley he figures is a shortcut behind that apartment block, it’ll only take him half an hour.  
   
He feels better already.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
In hindsight, the back alley was not a good idea. In fact, as Gerard’s not-good ideas go, it was one of the best. Or the worst, depending on how you look at it. His hands tighten reflexively around the strap of his bag and he glances over his shoulder for what feels like the fiftieth time in about a minute and a half. _No one there. Jesus, pull yourself together. Scared of an empty alley? You’re fucking ridiculous_ , he tells himself firmly. _And now you’re gonna walk your sorry ass the fuck out of here, and you’re not gonna look behind you one more time_.  
   
To his credit, he doesn’t. Not when he could swear that those aren’t just the echoes of his own footsteps, not even when he’s _positive_ he can feel someone’s eyes on him. His heartbeat starts to pick up, deafeningly loud in his ears. _It’s all in your head._ He wrinkles his nose; it reeks of piss and stale beer and slowly decomposing garbage. There _are_ nice parts of Belleville, somewhere, but this isn’t one of them. He walks briskly, in what he likes to imagine looks like a dashing, purposeful stride (it doesn’t). He glances up at a skeletal fire escape clinging tenuously to the old brick building and wonders idly how many steps it has. Not looking around, not looking around. And, there – a footstep that’s definitely no echo, fractionally mistimed with his, and, fuck, there’s now no denying that there is indeed someone following him. No one follows someone down an otherwise deserted back alley for anything but the most ulterior of motives; this is _really bad._ Barely managing to restrain himself from breaking into an undignified, arm-flailing, all-out sprint, he scoots round a corner, expecting to emerge into the slanting late afternoon sun.  
   
He stops, instead finding himself face to face with a monstrous, putrid dumpster.  
   
A dead end. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he can’t turn back now because there’s only one way out and that’s _past_ his would-be mugger/murderer/whateverthefuck –  
   
His heart is kicking in his chest and panic is starting to sink its claws into his stomach, but the blood screaming in his ears doesn’t quite drown out the soft, unmistakable _schiiiiiiiik_ of a knife being drawn.  
   
Gerard discovers that he is not one of those people whose minds go calm and blank when they think they’re about to kick the proverbial bucket. Instead, his brain is flooded with an unintelligible stream of _oh-god-I’m-gonna-die-here-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-I’m-too-young-to-die-don’t-let-me-die-oh-christ-I-think-I-left-the-TV-on-this-is-a-fucking-awful-place-to-die-and-it-stinks-and-this-was-really-fucking-stupid-I’m-gonna-be-the-next-dead-body-they-find-in-the-pond-and_ –  
   
He waits for the inevitable pain, facing the wall, eyes screwed tightly shut as if that’s going to make it hurt less.  
   
There’s a sickening crunch of bone on bone, and then a heavy _thud_ of bone on concrete.  
   
And then nothing. No pain, no blinding light or angels or flashback montage.  
   
Gingerly, he opens one eye, looks down, and finds himself to be looking promisingly not-dead. He opens the other eye and cautiously pokes himself in the stomach, his finger sinking in a little. Nope, definitely still all there, more’s the pity.  
   
Very, very slowly, he turns around, hands raised, still half expecting to feel a knife between his ribs at any second.  
   
On the ground is a huge guy in a filthy wife-beater and jeans, evidently unconscious and now quietly soaking up the fast-food grease and God-only-knows-what-the-fuck-else in the gutter. The knife, vicious and heavy-looking, glints unassumingly a couple of feet away. Standing a few feet away is a short, dark-haired boy in skinny jeans and a tattered Ramones T-shirt, prodding the behemoth none-too-carefully with a grubby sneaker. Gerard slumps against the dumpster, drained and utterly beyond caring about the germs he’s sure are currently flinging themselves onto his hoodie and jeans with gay abandon. His heart is still thumping erratically, and he’s positive this whole experience has shortened his life by at least twenty years.  
   
He peers confusedly up at his rescuer in a way that he hopes doesn’t make him look like a complete idiot or a damsel saved by her knight in shining... um, t-shirt, despite the fact that this is essentially what has just happened.  
   
He opens his mouth to speak, and what he _means_ to say is thank you.  
   
What falls out instead is, “Who are _you?_ ”  
   
“I’m your fucking fairy godmother,” the guy drawls, lighting a smoke. “Who are _you?_ ”  
   
In a moment of truly dazzling social dexterity, Gerard promptly forgets his own name. Mercifully, he’s granted a few seconds’ reprieve. The guy grins, and it’s like the sun coming out, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. It’s fucking _adorable_. “Nah, just messing with you. I’m Frank.”  
   
That’s when it _really_ starts to get weird. “Hi. Gerard. And, uh, thanks,” says Gerard’s mouth.  
   
 _Right – sorry, Frank, stupid me, I knew that, of fucking course you are, don’t know what’s wrong with me today_ , says his brain.  
   
It’s a good thing his mouth seems to be in control. If his brain had gotten there first, he’d have had to explain himself, and he’s got no fucking clue what he’d say. He’s positive he’s never seen the guy – Frank – before in his life; he thinks he’d remember someone so... well, memorable. Not to mention someone so criminally fucking cute. He stuffs the bizarre feeling of not-quite-déjà-vu into a mental shoebox and buries it in the back of his mind. It’s probably just a side effect of thinking your time has come and then being saved at the last minute by the suspiciously timely appearance of a cute, scuzzy-looking punk boy declaring himself to be your fairy godmother – which, by the way, Gerard is _totally_ not complaining about.  
   
“Well? You gonna sit there in the fucking dirt all day?” prompts Frank, stepping over the unconscious man on the ground and kicking the knife away. Gerard starts; what with all the other weird shit going on he’d almost forgotten how he’d ended up here in the first place. He grabs the tattooed hand extended towards him (warm, too warm; weird) and stands unsteadily. It’s not helping _at all_ that Frank’s kind of pretty. Alright, _very_ pretty, and given the choice, these aren’t really the circumstances Gerard would have picked for them to meet under. Can’t be helped, though, so he makes the best of it and smiles a little breathlessly. Frank eyes at him with concern, not letting go of his hand. “You okay, man? You don’t look too good.”  
   
“Nah, nah, I’m fine. Just need...” He waves a hand descriptively. His breathing is starting to even out again, and some of the manners drilled into him by his mother start to resurface. “But, uh, thanks. You know. Saved my life, I think. Come with me?” he blurts. “I’ll buy you a drink. I could really fucking use one right now.”  
   
He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and a half-remembered newspaper headline about double-act killers shifts uneasily in the back of his mind. Frank’s pretty un-intimidating (and about half his size to boot), but he took Gerard’s nearly-murderer out without so much as breaking a sweat, and _that_ guy’s a big motherfucker. But there’s something in Gerard that just _wants_ to trust Frank – even though he’s proved to himself again and again that his instincts in the judge-of-character department are somewhat deficient, to say the least. Well, he thinks, if it all goes horribly wrong, he’ll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it. He thinks he might have just sort of asked this complete stranger/knight in shining t-shirt/potential accomplice to a murderer out, because apparently that is the sort of thing he does now. But Frank’s grin reappears, even bigger and brighter than before. Gerard has to blink again because, fuck, he’s practically _luminescent_. For a split second, he looks strange and somehow... other, but then it’s gone again, whatever it was (if it was ever even there), and Gerard puts it down to a trick of the fading light and the adrenaline still rattling around in his blood.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
The bar’s sort of a dive, but the drinks are relatively cheap, the music’s not bad and no one asks too many questions. Gerard doesn’t come here much, mostly because he hasn’t usually got anybody to drink _with_ ,and he hates coming to bars on his own (and subsequently leaving them in the same way). It just makes him feel even more socially inept than he actually is, and if he gets wasted enough, he ends up dancing, which is unpleasant at best and downright hazardous at worst for everyone involved.There’s a live band today, with a dark-haired, Hispanic-looking frontman in a crumpled grey suit and shoelace tie waggling his eyebrows suggestively. As he threads his way through to the bar, Gerard catches Frank watching the singer with raised eyebrows of his own and a truly epic smirk.  
   
“Someone you know?” he asks, trying and failing to catch the bartender’s attention and paying _absolutely no attention at all_ to the completely irrational spike of almost-jealousy in his gut. Frank hesitates.  
   
“Yeah, sort of. Gabe’s... a real character.”  
   
Gabe certainly seems to have noticed Frank; he’s grinning back and definitely singing _at_ him. Gerard doesn’t quite catch everything he’s saying, but he’s pretty sure he just heard something that sounded like _believe, if it turns you on_ , and there’s something darkly magnetic in his unashamedly skeezy smile. Gerard is suddenly, inexplicably reminded of a snake-charmer, and a slight shiver crawls up his spine. He drops his gaze, but Frank just shakes his head.  
   
“In his dreams,” he chuckles, looking away and smiling at Gerard instead. Gerard is suddenly blindsided by another wave of something restless and unsettled that’s not quite like remembering, and he chases it. It gets him nowhere, though, and Frank’s now peering closely at him.  
   
“You _sure_ you’re ok?”  
   
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Drink?”  
   
Frank positively _beams_ , and that’s the moment when something in Gerard’s brain says, _oh, why the fuck not?_  
   
So when Frank asks him to dance about half an hour later (or maybe a few hours or a day or a week, he’s lost track), he can’t quite bring himself to refuse.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
The next morning, Gerard wakes up thoroughly wishing he hadn’t. Woken up, that is. It seems like it was a bad decision which his body is decidedly less than euphoric about and isn’t afraid to let him know it.  
   
He dimly remembers drinking a whole fucking parade of beers, dancing like a complete idiot, too-warm arms around his shoulders, someone propping him up and walking him home, a low, dirty voice in his ear ( _don’t go playing in any more back alleys while I’m gone, alright?_ ), the squeak of his own front door, a hand through his hair, the door again, this time gently squeaking shut, then nothing. Then again, he also remembers something about feathers and a flaming unicorn trying to steal his drink and then even more feathers, so he’s going to assume that a good chunk of what he does remember is beer-generated.  
   
So, where does that leave everything? He struggles to arrange what he knows for sure into some kind of sense. He’s fine (well, _alive_ , at least; fine might be stretching it), and therefore Frank (evidently the more sober of the two by the end of the night) is most likely fine too. He forms a vague, unfocused intention to pick up the phone and find out, but then remembers that he’s got no number to call and no address to go to. Somehow, this is a lot more disappointing than it really should be.  
   
Although, on reflection, he’s not really sure he _wants_ to talk to Frank.  
   
In fact, he suspects that he utterly humiliated himself last night in one way or another, which means that never seeing Frank again looks not only probable but significantly more attractive. All in all, things don’t look nearly as bad as they could right now.  
   
On the flip side, he’s overslept, his head is killing him, his tongue feels about twice its usual size, a hedgehog seems to have taken up residence in his sinuses, possibly to avenge the one that crawled into his mouth and _died_ , and as if that wasn’t enough, it’s _raining_.  
   
For a few seconds, he lies very, very still, debating the pros and cons staying right the fuck where he is until he thinks he’s capable of getting up and walking about without melting into a sticky, Gerard-colored puddle. He might have to explain himself to his boss, Mr. Schechter, if he happens to be around today. Not ideal, but not the end of the world, either. It’s a tricky one. He’d probably get away with it, too – the odd instance of rudeness to a valued customer aside, he’s pretty much a model employee. Well, most of the time. Besides, it’s truly disgusting out there; he can just _tell_ it’s that kind of rain that soaks you to the bone before you’ve gone ten steps. It looks windy, too. And his bed’s so warm, it’d be so easy just to...  
   
It strikes him at that moment that, either way, he’s going to have to explain himself to Bob.  
   
With a groan any self-respecting member of the walking undead would be proud of, he heaves himself out of bed and off to the bathroom. Fucking mornings, they shouldn’t even be _legal_. He doesn’t want to know what time it is – too late, and somehow simultaneously much, much too early. Finding out isn’t going to help, so he doesn’t check, and staggers off on an epic quest to locate some clean-ish clothes.  
   
After an inhumanly brief shower, two Tylenol and a glass of water, he feels slightly better. He attempts to smoke a much-needed cigarette while sorting the rest of his shit out, but after nearly setting fire to his own hair, he gives up, puts it out and sets about finding a matching pair of shoes. Under the circumstances, he feels the fact that he even remembers shoes are supposed to match at all is little short of a miracle. He peers out of the tiny window in the only-marginally-less-tiny kitchen, and scrunches his face up in distaste. Fuck. Still raining. Cursing the world and everything in it, he stomps off to find his umbrella. He’s now late enough that another minute or two won’t make a blind bit of difference.  
   
In an intriguing but exasperating turn of events, yet another cheap-piece-of-shit-but-still-better-than-nothing collapsible umbrella has vanished into the black hole he thinks must be somewhere in his apartment. It’s the only explanation for the disappearance rate of umbrellas and all the other crap he buys that just vanishes without a trace. He stands in the gloomy lobby, just inside the threshold of the building, gathering the courage to walk out into the pouring and most likely freezing rain with only his second-best leather jacket for protection. _Just do it_ , he tells himself. _Like ripping off a band-aid._  
   
Steeling himself, he steps out into the downpour, whimpering miserably as icy water starts running down the back of his neck, followed gleefully by sharp fingers of wind. Why _him?_ Why _today?_ Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. But he knows, really, that he can bitch all he likes, and it’s not going to help – so he starts walking.  
   
His mood is not improved several minutes later when he catches his own reflection in an obnoxiously shiny store front and starts in genuine terror. He looks like a fucking zombie, and his hair seems to be having a party: half of it is defying gravity in a truly impressive way while the other half is plastered flat to his head. Bob doesn’t give a shit what he looks like as long as he’s decent (which is usually a good thing), but it won’t help his case with Mr. Schechter if he’s in. He hears the _squelch_ as he sinks into his self-pity, but he suspects that that’s more to do with the water oozing around in his matching but seriously un-waterproof sneakers than anything else.  
   
“Gerard!”  
   
He turns slowly, drained and tired already. He is _so_ not in the mood for this shit today.  
   
It’s Frank, standing on the other side of the road, bouncing up and down, waving manically, dwarfed by a comically huge golf umbrella and holding – unless Gerard’s eyes deceive him – a large paper cup of the variety often used to hold hot, highly-caffeinated beverages.  
   
Not in the mood? Yeah, scratch that. Gerard doesn’t think he’s ever been so fucking happy to see anyone in his _life_.  
   
With the cheery recklessness often associated with the suicidal, Frank dashes out into the road, threading between cars and missing them by millimeters, eliciting a flurry of screeching brakes and angry horn blares. He turns and flips them all off with a good-natured stream of colorful invective while Gerard watches, heart in his mouth.  
   
“For you,” says Frank, grinning _much_ too widely for this hour of the morning and handing Gerard the gently steaming cup. His smile shrinks a little. “You’re not usually that much of a party animal, are you? I feel kinda guilty about letting you get so fucked up last night. Thought you might be needing a caffeine hit.”  
   
Gerard waves his apology away, faintly embarrassed. He’s not complaining about the coffee, and Frank’s concern is nothing less fucking _heartwarming_ , but he’s not seventeen anymore, damnit. He shouldn’t need to be nannied like this. “Nah, it wasn’t your fault. No worries, man. Kinda lucky you found me, though, right?”  
   
Frank shrugs modestly. “Not really. You were talking about walking down here on your way to work last night. Thought I might as well, you know?”  
   
Gerard has no memory of this, but he’s quite willing to believe it. A lesser person might have wondered how Frank had known exactly _when_ he’d be here and considered this suspiciously convenient to the point of slightly creepy, but Gerard is _absolutely_ not going to argue with the boy who saved his life last night and now wants to give him _coffee_. In fact, that’s more or less enough to secure anyone his undying love. Frank hasn’t mentioned anything, and from that and the fact that he’s _here_ ,Gerard deduces that he didn’t make too much of an ass of himself last night, which is something.  
   
Gerard takes the cup (which doubles as a handy cover for sidling under the umbrella), and inhales with an expression bordering on reverence. Coffee, sugary as hell, and rich and dark and spiky, with slight overtones of hazelnut.  
   
“Fuck. This smells fucking _incredible_. Dude, _thank you_. What are you, my fucking guardian angel?”  
   
As he takes the first, blissful mouthful, Frank’s smile widens by a couple of molars. “Yeah, something like that. Anyway, don’t you have a job to be going to?”  
   
Gerard winces. Oh. _That_ job. “Yeah. That’s where I was going.” He eyes the umbrella speculatively. It’s plenty big enough for two, and Frank doesn’t seem to have any place important to be. He feels like kind of an asshole – Frank’s done nothing but favor after favor for him – but the rain’s not showing any inclination to let up soon, and he might as well ask. “Walk me there?” he asks, hopefully, widening his eyes to make what Mikey rather cruelly calls his tree frog face. He prefers to think of it as _endearing_. “It’s not that far.”  
   
Frank looks him up and down and actually _giggles_ , the bastard. “I dunno if it’s worth me bothering, man. You’re already about as wet as it’s humanly possible to be.”  
   
Gerard likes Frank about as much as it’s _humanly possible_ to like someone you’ve known less than twenty-four hours, but thinks he may be starting to hate him just a little bit too.  
   
“Please?” he tries, pushing the puppy eyes as far as he dares.  
   
Frank rolls his own eyes and bumps his hip against Gerard’s. “Oh, _fine_. Go ahead, rot my teeth with cuteness, motherfucker. I can’t say no to a face like that. Come the fuck on, then. Which way?”  
   
Gerard does a mental fistpump. And to think Mikey had said only last week that he had the social skills of an amoeba. Goes to show what _he_ knows.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
To Gerard’s mingled delight and consternation, Frank doesn’t leave when they get to the store (“You work _here?_ Dude! That is _so_ awesome! I fucking _love_ this place!”).  
   
Delight, because Frank isn’t staff and is therefore a customer, which means the most Bob can do is slant murderous sidelong looks at him while Frank is distracted by something exciting or brightly-colored. Bob starts to prowl around the nearly empty store in search of oil pastels for a customer, and he does _not_ look happy, but at least Gerard gets to keep all his limbs for a while longer.  
   
...And consternation, because, really, it’s a mystery to him what Frank is still doing here. The vague suspicion that Frank still fully intends to rob him blind and dump his body in a gutter somewhere still floats uneasily in the back of his mind. After all, Frank appeared out of fucking _nowhere_ at the most freakishly perfect moment and then pulled the same trick this morning, which must be something of a strain on the laws of probability. It’s made all the more baffling by the fact that Frank’s had several chances stick a knife between Gerard’s ribs already, and hasn’t taken a single one of them. Maybe it’s some kind of twisted game; gaining Gerard’s trust so he never sees it coming.  
   
It’s possible, he’s willing to admit.  
   
But, faulty as his gut instinct is, something about that just doesn’t sit right. From behind the counter, he watches Frank charging about like a tiny, overexcited whirling dervish (today sporting the same pair of holey jeans and an equally ratty Misfits shirt), and sighs deeply. He’s still feeling _much_ too hung over for this degree of intelligent thought. Eventually, Frank tires himself out and ambles back over to Gerard.  
   
“This must be the best job _ever_ ,” he enthuses. “I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start with all this stuff, but it’s so awesome just to look at. Like, you could do _anything_ with it, you know?”  
   
Ah, yes. The calculating, sophisticated thought processes of a cold-blooded killer. Not. Gerard can feel himself grinning like an idiot, because – Frank _gets_ it.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, softly. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”  
   
Frank’s mouth curls into a little, lopsided smile, and Gerard’s brain goes completely blank for a second. That lip ring is doing funny things to his stomach, but it’s more than that. The store’s lights are soft and warm, and Frank looks sort of... glowy, like he’s lit from within.  
   
There’s a moment of total, perfect stillness, and Gerard doesn’t even realize he’s leaning forwards and closing the gap between them –  
   
A shrill, imperious _bleep-bleep_ slices through the silence and they both jump guiltily like teenagers caught with their hands down their pants. Frank cringes like a kicked puppy, and digs a battered cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. As his eyes skate across the tiny screen, his eyebrows draw together and his mouth twists.  
   
“Oh, _man_ ,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, “This _cannot_ be good.” He looks up apologetically at Gerard. “Sorry, man, gotta go. See you round!”  
   
He darts forward, plants a kiss squarely on Gerard’s cheek, and then he’s gone before Gerard can even open his mouth to say _wait – what?_  
   
He flops back into his chair behind the counter. He can feel an embarrassing blush flowering across his cheekbones, and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. _Not_ cool; boiled lobster really isn’t a good look for him. He can still feel Frank’s lips against his face, feverishly warm like his hands – and, really. Just. Frank’s _mouth_. On his fucking _face_ , what the _fuck_. _Ridiculous_ , he tells himself sternly, for the second time in as many days. _Get your shit together, Gerard. Frank’s just handsy; you know tons of people like that. He didn’t_ mean _anything by it. You’re acting like a fucking twelve-year-old, for fuck’s sake._  
   
It’s still not quite enough, though. That was an actual, genuine Moment, as far as he’s concerned, and nothing he can tell himself is quite up to wiping the massive, dorky grin off his face.  
   
“Well?”  
   
It’s Bob, arms folded and eyes set to _I-will-_ end- _you_.  
   
Fortunately, that brings Gerard back to earth with a bump.  
   
“Um. I overslept?” he offers lamely, freezing like a rabbit in the headlights of a semi.  
   
Bob looks pointedly at his watch. “You don’t _say_. Do you even know what _time_ it is?”  
   
“I’m sorry?” Gerard tries, cowering and wincing at the way his voice has risen almost a full octave above its normal pitch. Oh God, he really _is_ going to die now, and Frank isn’t here to bail him out this time.  
   
“You should be. I was about to go looking for you. I mean, you’re kind of annoying sometimes, but I’d rather know you weren’t spilling your guts in a gutter somewhere, you know?”  
   
Gerard really does feel bad now. He decides not to mention how close Bob’s figure of speech is to what nearly actually happened. No need to freak the poor guy out. Bob heaves an exasperated sigh and rubs a hand over his eyes.  
   
“Look. You’re usually pretty good about all this shit. Plus, if I fire you it’ll take me months to teach someone new where everything is. So make this the last time, alright? Or at least... I don’t know, Jesus, fucking call me or something? I was getting worried.”  
   
Gerard ducks his head contritely. “Alright. And, uh, sorry, man. Really.”  
   
Bob just huffs and stomps off to prop up the little table currently sagging under the weight of a mountain of glossy art books, and Gerard lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Well, that was... weird. He’d expected a half-hour bawling out, at the very least. He doesn’t blame Bob. He’s a good guy, and though the store isn’t massive, it’s really too much work for just one person – even Bob with his awesome ninja powers. Gerard should know; he had to manage all on his decidedly un-ninja-ish lonesome when Bob broke his foot last August. It’s a time he’d really rather forget, although that’s got more to do with the fact that it was around then that they’d upped his prescription again.  
   
Better not to think too much about that. It always just ends up bumming him out. He moves on quickly, concentrating on the work, and telling himself _very firmly_ that he is definitely not having too much fun with the price sticker gun ( _totally_ a legit part of his job and not _remotely_ one which he might have begged Bob to let him do). The next few hours pass blissfully uneventfully, which is actually sort of nice, after the last couple of days. And apart from the time when he catches himself doodling the spider web tattoo from Frank’s hand on the back of an old receipt, he manages not to think too much about him – quite an achievement, he thinks. Frank’s the kind of boy who he’d normally dismiss right away as several light years out of his league, but it doesn’t feel like that. It’s just... easy.  
   
It’s then that he remembers how long he’s actually known Frank – i.e., a day. If that. He wilts visibly because, fuck, he’s doing that thing again where he makes these big, sweeping assumptions based on jack shit. He’s uncomfortably aware that he’s got an obsessive streak which alarms even him sometimes; it means he falls in love with things (a song, an ideology, a person) too hard and too fast and tends to get his heart broken. He likes to think he bounces back pretty well, though. He can’t help it – he’s been told ad nauseam that he’s just got an _artistic temperament_ ,whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. All he really knows is that he’s never quite lost that feeling you get when you find something that’s just _so fucking awesome_ that you’re torn between keeping it all to yourself forever and telling anyone and everyone who’ll listen.  
   
It wouldn’t be the first time. But this... he doesn’t know. It’s probably just him, but it doesn’t _feel_ like that. He perks up slightly; maybe there’s some kind of whacked-out destiny shit going on. He doesn’t really believe in any of that, but it’d still be pretty cool.  
   
Whatever. He shakes himself; either way – kooky supernatural involvement or lack thereof – it’s still ridiculous of him to be losing his shit like this over someone he doesn’t even _know_. It’s probably, like, a delayed reaction to a sort-of near death experience or something.  
   
There’s still a bit of a spring in his step as he walks home.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
He’s half an hour, one beer, two cigarettes and one and a half bags of cheetos into an ingeniously dreadful zombie movie when there’s a knock at the door. _Shit_. He’d just managed to achieve that state of warm, fuzzy lethargy that comes from the combination of a comfy couch and a stupid movie, and the front door suddenly seems an awfully long way away. For a second or two, he toys half-seriously with the notion of just pretending he’s not home until they go away.  
   
“Gee? I know you’re there, asshole, open the fucking _door!_ ”  
   
He starts upright, cursing. Oops. He’d completely forgotten Mikey had told him he was coming over. Told, not asked, because Mikey doesn’t _ask_ anymore. He rolls off the couch and heads for the door. When he opens it, Mikey raises an eyebrow, huffs, “And about fucking time, too,” and walks right past him into the closet that passes for a living room.  
   
“You would not _believe_ the week I’ve had,” grumbles Mikey, flinging himself down melodramatically and stretching out over the entire couch. Gerard wrestles a cushion out from under his brother’s bony shoulder and sits down on the floor, scrunched uncomfortably into the too-snug space, the back of his head resting against Mikey’s shins. He’s bigger and heavier, and he _could_ get Mikey to move if he really wanted to, but it just looks like too much effort.  
   
“Oh, I dunno, I might,” he says, thinking of his own week with a wide yawn. He hears a distinctive rustling noise somewhere by his left ear, and belatedly connects it with its origin. “Hey! Get your own, fucker!”  
   
It’s too late. Mikey has already swiped Gerard’s half-eaten bag of cheetos and is inhaling them like he’s an inch from starvation. Which, looking at him, wouldn’t be too much of a stretch of the imagination – that is, if you didn’t know the kid ate like a horse.  
   
“Asshole,” Gerard sulks ineffectually as Mikey licks his fingers and beams unrepentantly at him, haloed in the flickering green-white glow of the TV.  
   
“You could get _your_ own,” he suggests, and Gerard is suddenly vividly reminded of why he tried to drown his brother in the pool when he was three and supposedly didn’t know any better.  
   
“You’re missing the point. It’s a whole principles thing.”  
   
A derisive snort. “Whatever, man.”  
   
They sit in companionable silence for a while. Gerard likes this half-assed arguing with Mikey; it’s when Mikey won’t bitch back at him that he gets worried. The last year hasn’t been great for either of them; it’s become an unspoken agreement that they’ll try to see each other at least once a week, just to make sure they’re still ok.  
   
“ _Awful_ movie, man,” remarks Mikey, watching the screen skeptically as a particularly unconvincing spray of bright red blood fountains skywards.  
   
“Fucking appalling, right? But there’s nothing else on.”  
   
Mikey grunts in a way that signifies his discontentment with the world in general, and watches for maybe another ten seconds before he gets bored and prods at Gerard’s head with his foot.  
   
“So, don’t you wanna know all about my week?”  
   
“You know, I actually think I’m good, thanks. Ow, _ow!_ Get _off_ me, fucker!Fine, fine, I wanna know. You go first, tell me.”  
   
Mikey launches into a rant that would sound mildly irritated to someone who didn’t know him. Gerard, however, knows that this marginal shift in tone is Mikey’s version unbridled rage. Gerard suspects he’s wanted to dump this on someone all week – not that he minds, really; it’s what he’s here for.  
   
“Well, first, they want me to start running the _art club_ , and I was like, have you _met_ me? I’m the Way brother who can’t draw for shit, remember? I told them it was you they wanted – ”  
   
Gerard groans, his sympathy shrinking sharply. “The fuck did you do _that_ for? They’ll think you meant it. They’re gonna hunt me down and make me teach sixth-graders to draw fruit. _Fruit_ , Mikey. _Sixth-graders_.”  
   
“Well, if they ask, you can just say no, right? It’s not like you actually go there anymore.”  
   
Gerard grunts in assent; he can’t really argue with that. “Fair enough.”  
   
“Anyway, thenI get detention for not doing the calculus assignment for, like, the sixth time in a row, which is totally ridiculous, ’cause I’m not even failing that class. It’s that Mrs. Geary, man. She’s _evil._ She’s out to get me,” says Mikey, very seriously.  
   
“Smart lady. I don’t blame her.”  
   
“Oh, shut up. And _then_ I got into this massive argument with Mr. Jacobs in health, ’cause he started talking about asthma medication, and I was like, dude, you’re actually completely wrong about that. You know, really calmly and everything. Like, I should know, right? I spent most of last year in the hospital actually _on_ all that shit. That’s why I’m redoing my goddamn senior year, fuck. And he starts yelling at me for talking back and puts me in detention _again!_ Fucking unfair, right?”  
   
“Unbelievable,” agrees Gerard, but he isn’t really listening – not to the words, at least. It’s not that he doesn’t care, as such. It’s reassuring to hear Mikey this animated about anything, even if he is just bitching about his oh-so-terrible life. His brother’s voice is like that tape you’ve listened to so many times it’s turned into a fuzzy lullaby, worn-in and familiar and all blurred around the edges. He could fall asleep like this, and unless he’s careful that’s exactly what’s about to happen.  
   
“And then that douchebag off the football team started giving me shit ’cause I told him it was gonna cost him ten bucks if he wanted me to do his English assignment for him, and I got hauled into McCarthy’s office for fighting, even though it was totallyhis fault.”  
   
Gerard cranes his neck round to look at Mikey. “You alright?” he asks. Mikey’s tall, wiry, and stronger than he looks, and he bites like a fucking terrier, but he’s just too light and too skinny to win a fight with your standard-issue jock. There’s no way he weighs more than a hundred pounds; there just isn’t enough _of_ him.  
   
“Yeah, fine. He got me in a headlock, but I kicked him in the balls, so it was all good.”  
   
Gerard nods, satisfied. He still feels this lingering and illogical sense of guilt that he can’t do more to protect Mikey from the traumatic experience that is high school. There’s really nothing he _can_ do, but it’s still _there_.  
   
“...And now they want me to join the _marching band_.”  
   
“But you play _bass_. There’s no bass in a marching band.”  
   
“That’s what I told them, and did they listen?”  
   
“Then why not? Isn’t Ray in the marching band? You’re all, Ray this, Ray that. You like him or something?”  
   
Mikey grabs a handful of Gerard’s hair and yanks, ignoring the squawk of protest. “Fuck off, I do _not._ ’Sides, he’s got a girlfriend.”  
   
“Whatever, man. Five bucks says he’s into guys too.”  
   
“You’re on.”  
   
Silence pools in the space between them, until Mikey pokes him again. “So? Your turn, Gee. What’s going on with you?”  
   
Gerard pauses, feeling around for the words to explain all the crazy shit that’s been happening to him, intending to skim over the unimportant stuff and go straight to what matters (i.e., Frank). Unfortunately, this doesn’t quite work out, and he gets a bit carried away with a detailed description of the imperious harpy that has Mikey wheezing with laughter.  
   
“And her _shoes!_ I swear to God, they were like _this_ ; you could have killed someone with one of those things. And I’m still carrying all this shit, right, and she doesn’t even know what half of it’s _for_ – ”  
   
“Oh my God, I can _see_ that! Dude, _how_ did you manage not to, you know, fall on your face? Or, like, kill her with one of her own shoes?”  
   
“Willpower, man. It’s a skill. I’m the motherfucking willpower _ninja_.”  
   
“You’re so full of shit,” giggles Mikey, still struggling slightly for air and groping for his inhaler. Eventually, his laughter subsides enough for him to speak intelligibly again. “So, was that it? The high point of your entire week? Or anything else happen?”  
   
“Frank happened,” says Gerard. Actually, he reflects, that’s not far off the mark. Frank isn’t someone you _meet_ , Frank is sort of someone who _happens to you_.  
   
“Who’s _Frank?_ ” Mikey asks, sitting up with interest, inhaler forgotten in his hand.  
   
“Frank’s...” Gerard begins, then stops when he realizes he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’d been going to say. “Huh. You know, I have no idea. Hardly know the guy.”  
   
   
   


**_.two_ **

The next morning, Gerard’s warm, peaceful oblivion is brutally shattered by the obnoxious trilling of his cell phone about six inches away from his ear. He groans, and extends a hand towards the source of the revoltingly cheerful noise, groping blindly for it until his fingers brush against smooth plastic. Raising his head to regard it with unadulterated loathing, he stabs at the _accept call_ button with sleepy-clumsy fingers.  
   
“Mmph?”  
   
He really doesn’t feel he can be expected to be charming before he’s been caffeinated.  
   
“ _Hey, Gerard? It’s Frank,_ ” says the phone, tinny and hopeful. Fuck, Frank had better have a _really_ good reason for waking him up at ridiculous o’ clock in the morning. At this rate, he’s going to start associating Frank with mornings, which totally isn’t something he wants to have to do. He pushes himself up into a reasonable approximation of a sitting position and rubs his eyes.  
   
“Frank?” he repeats, his voice hoarse and fuzzed with sleep. “It’s, like, the crack of... of...” he looks blearily at his alarm clock.  
   
“ _Noon_.”  
   
Gerard can practically _hear_ Frank smirking.  
   
“The crack of noon,” Gerard continues, unfazed. It’s a _Saturday_ , for crying out loud. Noon is practically the middle of the fucking night. A thought blunders across his mind, and eventually connects to something. “Hey, how’d you even get my number?”  
   
Curse Frank’s stupidly adorable giggle, Gerard can feel his indignation draining away like water down a drain. “ _You gave it to me on Thursday night, man. You seemed pretty set on me taking it_.”  
   
Shit. He’d thought the apparent lack of humiliation was too good to be true. At least Frank doesn’t seem to mind. Gerard can hear a curl of amusement coloring his voice even through the shitty cell phone speaker, but it’s affectionate rather than cruel.  
   
“ _So, uh, I was thinking_ ,” says Frank, when the silence stretches awkwardly and it becomes obvious that Gerard isn’t really in a chatty mood. And, fuck, he _wants_ to be pissed off with Frank for waking him up, but he sounds all awkward and embarrassed like he’s asking Gerard to _prom_ or something and Gerard’s heart just melts. “ _We could, I don’t know, hang out today or something? I mean, I had to run yesterday, but you said to call you if I ever wanted to hang out. I mean, you were drunk when you said it, but I thought I’d call anyway. So, uh, this is me. You know, calling you._ ”  
   
Gerard could swear he can hear Frank flicking his lip ring nervously. He’s pretty sure this is kind of weird; do people you don’t even really know normally call you the day after they saw you last and ask to see you again?  
   
Somehow, the fact that it’s _Frank_ makes the whole thing make some kind of sense. The small part of him that still has its doubts about his suspiciously perfect timing and clings resolutely to the Frank-is-a-serial-killer theory starts to object, but it is overruled by a swift kick in the teeth from the part of him that really, _really_ likes Frank. He makes a sleepy noise of assent, and doesn’t see Frank grinning to himself.  
   
“ _Awesome. Well, I think I pretty much remember how to get to yours from when I walked you home the other night. So, I could be there in, like, an hour?_ ”  
   
Another indistinct noise, this one sounding slightly more like _sure_.  
   
 “ _Alright. See you then, man!_ ”  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
By the time Frank appears at Gerard’s door (grinning and bouncing up and down in a way that makes Gerard want to check Frank doesn’t actually have a wagging tail back there somewhere), Gerard’s rather more awake, or at least passably coherent. Dressed, upright and actually _showered_ , to boot, which is not to be sniffed at.  
   
“Hey,” says Frank, beaming. There’s a split second where Gerard could swear he looks almost... relieved, or something, but then it’s gone and he chalks it up to the fact he feels like he’s left his brain under his pillow.  
   
“Hey.” Gerard smiles back, albeit a little sleepily. Frank’s _here_. Fuck knows why, but he _is_ , and Gerard figures he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. “So. Uh. Any plans?”  
   
“Well, I was thinking I could buy you a coffee. You know, as an apology for waking you up.” Frank’s grin is conspicuously lacking in both sincerity and repentance, and Gerard wants to sulk, but, you know, _coffee_. As they walk out of the building’s front door, the sun hits Gerard like Thor’s hammer, dazzling him, and he squints against it, raising a hand to his stinging eyes. Frank bursts into this ridiculous laugh, high-pitched and totally unselfconscious, and Gerard tries very, very hard not to be charmed _stupid_ by Frank and his fucking dorky laugh.  
   
“What _are_ you, a fucking vampire or something?” Frank sniggers. Gerard rolls his eyes and shoves him, sending him stumbling and laughing over the edge of the curb and into a puddle left over from yesterday’s rain. “Fuck _off_ , it’s just... bright.”  
   
“Whatever, dude. You’re _totally_ a vampire.” Still smirking, Frank extracts a glossy, red apple from the pocket of his hoodie, and sinks his teeth into it before offering it to Gerard. Gerard eyes it mistrustfully.  
   
“An _apple?_ Really? Who just _carries_ apples around with them?”  
   
“It’s just fruit, man. It’s not gonna kill you.”  
   
“If it does,” says Gerard darkly, “I’m holding you responsible.”  
   
But he takes a bite anyway before handing it back. Gerard’s thinks it’s possible that he likes Frank much, much more than he has any real reason to, and there’s more to it than the way he fills those skinny jeans (pretty fucking nicely, actually, for anyone who wants to know). Frank throws his head back and laughs, razor-sharp and sun-gilded, and there’s something so achingly _familiar_ about it that it stops Gerard’s train of thought like a girder on the metaphorical tracks. Before, he’d managed to convince himself he’d been imagining things again, but thatwas real, undeniable and about as subtle as a smack in the face. _Definitely_ weird.  
   
Well. Weird _er_.  
   
Before he can speculate further on the whole bucket-load of weirdness that is Frank, Frank’s seizing him by the arm and steering him down a side street and into a coffee shop. Cursive script in peeling gold paint on the door proclaims simply, _The Ark_. Gerard tries valiantly to chase down the ripples that this triggers in the back of his mind, but he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything this morning and his stomach growls threateningly at him. The door swings shut behind them, and Gerard inhales a lungful of heady, coffee-scented air. Frank catches his blissed-out expression, rolls his eyes, and propels Gerard towards one of the little round tables.  
   
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back, alright?”  
   
Gerard’s more than happy to do exactly that. He wonders how he’s never come across this place before; he’d thought he’d tried every coffee shop within a twenty-mile radius of his apartment, but apparently not. It’s somehow out of place here, like someone’s carelessly mislaid a tiny bit of, like, London or Paris or somewhere in _Belleville_ , of all places. He could spend hours here, given half a chance. The immediate ecstasy of the smell of coffee has faded to a muted glow, and he casts an appreciative eye over the dark, glossy wood paneling on the walls, and the way the soft lights glint enticingly on the impressive array of brass fittings behind the counter.  
   
Actually, he thinks, his hands beginning to itch for pen and paper, there’s a hint of the Victorian lurking around the glass store front. It’s the kind of place, he thinks, where interesting, mysterious people meet to discuss interesting, mysterious things. Looking down, he traces an ancient coffee ring on the polished mahogany surface of the table, wondering whose coffee it was, what the rest of their day was like, where they are now, whether they’re happy, what kind of person they are. Starbucks is all well and good, but as far as he’s concerned it loses hands down every time to places like this, where even the fucking tables have stories.  
   
Frank breaks into his daydreaming by pulling out a chair and placing two chipped mugs down between them. He throws himself into the chair, beaming, and pushes one of the mugs towards Gerard. Gerard suspects he’s eying the mug in a decidedly predatory fashion, but doesn’t care. He reaches for it, curling his hands around the sides and enjoying the warmth seeping into his skin. He takes a cautious sip, expecting it to burn his tongue. It doesn’t, though, it’s just right, and it’s fucking _perfect_ , just like the one Frank brought him yesterday. Definitely notes of hazelnut, he thinks, eyes closed. Interesting. Unusual. And sort of _utterly genius_. He could _definitely_ come here again. Or maybe just, you know, go the whole nine yards and move right in while he’s at it. That wouldn’t be weird, right?  
   
Frank waves a hand in front of Gerard’s face, grinning. “Gerard? You alright? You two, uh, look like you wanna be left alone.”  
   
“Fuck you, man,” retorts Gerard, but there’s no heat in it. “I just... like coffee.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah. You’re not addicted, you just need it to function. Nothing _remotely_ unhealthy or creepy about it.”  
   
Gerard attempts to give him the evil eye, but he doesn’t think he quite pulls it off. Last time he’d tried it on Mikey, Mikey had just given him that one-eyebrow-raised, uniquely Mikey-ish look of _really, Gerard? really?_ and taken the last cookie anyway, the fucker.  
   
Gerard attempts to appear above such immaturity, but manages to choke slightly on his next mouthful of coffee, and ends up spluttering and hacking and not looking even remotely haughty. Frank cracks up.  
   
“Dork,” he snickers.  
   
In light of the last few minutes, Gerard doesn’t feel he’s really in any position to argue, so he shuts up and drinks his coffee (not really much of a hardship, because, you know, _coffee_ , and fucking _good_ coffee at that). Opposite him, Frank drinks his own too fast, impatiently, and Gerard watches disapprovingly. Frank, it seems, is one of those _philistines_ who drinks coffee without _appreciating_ it. And to think, they’d been getting along so well.  
   
Although, going by the twitchy, syncopated rhythm Frank’s feet are tapping out against the floor, he’s not exactly in need of the caffeine. Frank drains the last of his coffee and slams the mug down like it’s a shot glass, licking his lips.  
   
Gerard, for the record, most definitely does _not_ stare at his mouth.  
   
The instant he’s swallowed the last mouthful of his own coffee, Frank’s already jumping up, seizing him by the arm and pulling him towards the door like he can’t wait to leave.  
   
“Hey, Frank! Wait up!”  
   
The voice isn’t one Gerard knows, and when they both turn towards it he sees it’s the kid working behind the counter. He’s pretty in a wholesome, apple-pie sort of way that’s a million miles from the whole sexy/scruffy punk thing Frank’s got going on, but – Gerard does a double-take – there’s something weirdly... _similar_ about the two of them, sort of like they’re made out of the same stuff or something.  
   
“Brendon. Good to see you, man,” says Frank, reaching out to shake Brendon’s hand, but there’s something in his voice that could be warning or maybe just guarded; Gerard isn’t sure.  
   
“‘ _Good to see you?’_ That’s all you can say? You _never_ come and see us anymore!”  
   
Frank is now definitely giving Brendon a look that’s all wide eyes and gritted teeth which even Gerard can read with no trouble at all as shut-the-fuck-up- _now_ , but Brendon doesn’t seem to notice. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so damn _odd_.  
   
Brendon _pouts_ , looking surprisingly threatening despite the shampoo commercial hair, the spotless, cream-colored apron and immaculate white button-down shirt. Dude’s even got a little bow tie, fucking seriously. Maybe it’s the scary-looking milk whisk he’s brandishing in the hand not resting indignantly on his hip.  
   
“Frank, you’re usually all holed up somewhere refusing to talk to anyone, and when you’re not it’s only because _he’s_ showed up again, and then you’re too busy! We _miss_ you. It wouldn’t kill you to just – ”  
   
It’s at this point that he notices Gerard. “Oh! I’m sorry!” his eyes flick sheepishly to Frank, and Gerard’s just quick enough to see Frank roll his eyes in exasperation. “Didn’t see you there; that was rude.” He leans over and grabs Gerard by the hand, shaking it firmly, positively _beaming_. Gerard shivers slightly, because, fuck, is the guy running a fever or something? His hands are nearly as warm as Frank’s, and Frank has, like, bionic toaster hands.  
   
“I’m Brendon,” he says, just in case Gerard hadn’t picked that up already from the bizarre exchange between him and Frank.  
   
“Um. Gerard. Hi?” he can’t help but feel a bit put out. It’s like being a kid again, when adults are talking about something they think you’re too young to understand.  
   
“Nice to meet you,” says Brendon, very earnestly. He’s awfully... _bright_ , somehow, so clean and perfect that it’s almost painful to look directly at him. His eyes are big and deep brown and terribly sincere, and Gerard has to look away. It’s like Brendon can see right through him to everything that’s in his head.  
   
Thankfully, Brendon looks back to Frank. “This isn’t – ?”  
   
“Yeah,” says Frank, slightly sharply, “It is. And we’ve gotta go. Places to be, right?”  
   
Brendon looks disappointed. “Oh. Well, alright. Maybe see you soon, then?”  
   
“Maybe.”  
   
That megawatt grin returns and Gerard resists the urge to shield his eyes. “Good,” says Brendon, sounding like he really _means_ it. He looks back at Gerard, whose stomach twists uncomfortably. Brendon seems really sweet (really, _really_ sweet), but Gerard can’t shake the feeling that those eyes can read minds. “Come in whenever you want,” he says, like it would mean the world to him. “Coffee on the house.”  
   
Gerard instantly takes back everything even _remotely_ negative he might previously have thought about Brendon.  
   
“Really? Hey, thanks, man!” He can feel his biggest, dorkiest grin spreading itself across his face and he can’t even bring himself to care, ridiculous as he knows it looks.  
   
Frank groans and elbows him in the ribs, which fucking hurts a lot more than it really ought to. “Swear to God, you’d sell your _soul_ for coffee. Brendon, you have _no idea_ what you’ve done.”  
   
Brendon laughs and a warm shiver slides up Gerard’s spine. It sounds... odd, but not in a bad way, like there are harmonics and layers that no human laugh really has any right to have.  
   
“Too late, Frank. Call it penance, for making us all worry about you all the time. Anyway, see you both round!” He waves with the milk whisk, still grinning blindingly. Frank just rolls his eyes again, shakes his head and drags Gerard away.  
   
“What was all _that?_ ” asks Gerard, trying not to sound as much like a disgruntled five-year-old as he feels as they emerge into the light again. Frank shrugs, not meeting Gerard’s eyes and scuffing his feet against the sidewalk.  
“Me and Brendon, we... we go back a long way. He worries,” Frank says shortly. Gerard takes the hint and doesn’t ask any more questions, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t _there_ , lining up and waiting for answers. There are several parts of that conversation he’d like someone to explain to him – namely, _and when you’re not it’s only because_ he’s _showed up again._ Whatever ( _who_ ever) that’s about, Frank seems pretty reluctant to talk about it. Weird, he thinks, again. All very, _very_ weird. But, he reminds himself, not his business. He fumbles in his hoodie for cigarettes and his lighter, shaking the box until one drops out into his hand and lighting it as they walk, cupping his hand around the little flame. Frank’s eyes zero in hungrily on the box, then turn pleading as they slide up to Gerard’s face. Gerard rolls his eyes.  
   
“Your subtlety continues to amaze me,” he deadpans, but he can feel himself smiling like the complete loser he is when he offers Frank the carton.  
   
Frank takes two, tucks one behind his ear and the other between his lips, then, without warning, grabs Gerard with both hands by the front of his hoodie, pulling him in close. Gerard makes a startled squeaking noise, because, holy hell, Frank’s suddenly close enough that Gerard could count his eyelashes and it’s making his heart do funny things. Still not letting go, Frank leans in oh-so-slowly to light his cigarette off Gerard’s, tilting his head like there’s a kiss between them instead of just a couple of smokes. As the slow smolder crawls from one to the other, Gerard sort of forgets to breathe. It’s _Frank_ , beautiful and maddening and not-quite-familiar, leaning into him, eyes burning into his with only a few inches of sunlit air between them. He’s standing in the street outside the coffee shop and not-quite-kissing _Frank_ , who he doesn’t even _know_ , for fuck’s sake, but, Jesus, that’s never felt less true. Frank doesn’t move, hands still twisted in Gerard’s hoodie, eyes fixed on Gerard like he can’t look away.  
   
When he finally lets go and takes a small step backwards, it feels sort of as if time has just re-started, and Gerard’s lungs become rather more insistent that breathing would be a good idea, you know, now-ish. He sucks in a lungful of nicotine-heavy air, trying not to stare too openly as Frank takes the first drag and his eyes slide shut in an expression of utter bliss.  
   
“Mmm,” he hums. “Been too fucking long.”  
   
He opens his eyes and turns an incandescent grin on Gerard. “C’mon,” he says, over his shoulder, as he strides off down the street.  
   
“Where are we going?” Gerard isn’t proud of the way he’s practically jogging to keep up; shouldn’t Frank have, like, proportionally shorter legs or something? In Gerard’s defense, his head’s still spinning and he’s got no idea what the fuck just happened. Because, seriously, he knows Frank’s got some personal space issues, but _that_ was... his brain flounders uncomprehendingly. Frank could have just asked to borrow his fucking lighter if that was all he wanted, but, oh no, he’d felt the need to practically jump Gerard’s bones in the middle of the fucking street. That’s got to mean something, right? Or is that reasonably normal and is _he_ the weird one for freaking out over it? It’s all too fucking confusing, and it’s not helped by the fact that there’s still something quiet but persistent nagging at the back of his mind. It’s now been – what, three days? – and he’s starting to see how easy it would be to lose his head completely over this weird, pretty boy. More like falling than jumping; something that just _happens_ without you so much as lifting a finger.  
   
It’s _terrifying_ , so he stops thinking about it, squashes it into the back of his mind and hurries after Frank.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
It turns out that Frank did, in fact, have a plan – either that or he’s one of those infuriating people who can just make shit up as they go through life and make it look like they totally did it on purpose, as part of a grand and overarching master plan. Gerard wouldn’t be surprised.  
   
They end up in the (comparatively) nice part of the park, sharing the rest of Gerard’s smokes, stretched out side-by-side on the grass in the shadow of a spreading oak tree, having a very serious discussion about whether or not the squirrels are up to something. Gerard has completely given up on trying to understand what the fuck is happening with him and Frank, which has made things much easier. He’s going to be Spontaneous and Chilled Out. He’s going to be _Cool._ Not adjectives usually applied to him by... well, anyone, really, but he’s going to try.  
   
The thing is, the park isn’t exactly his natural habitat – he’d usually be happier in his apartment or someone’s basement, or even just wandering around the streets at night. And this whole lying-in-grass thing is a _lot_ less comfortable than Hollywood makes it look. The earth under the grass is still damp and he can feel it seeping into his jeans, and the leaves that have fallen from the oak tree keep itch the back of his neck and crumble into itty-bitty pieces when he tries to pull them out of his hair.  
   
Plus, his nose itches, and he wonders abstractedly if it’s possible to be allergic to the great outdoors.  
   
But it doesn’t _matter_. Frank’s so close, radiating warmth like a fucking space heater or something, and he thinks the unusual circumstances under which they met have burned some kind of Pavlovian association between Frank and safety into his brain. He stretches contentedly – this is all so much better now he’s stopped _thinking_ so hard. He could just about fall asleep here, which is saying something; he never even slept in the car when he was a kid. He isn’t usually this relaxed, especially not around people he doesn’t know that well. Maybe Frank put something in his coffee. If he did, Gerard isn’t complaining; this really is rather nice.  
   
“Hey.” Frank’s foot nudges against his. “What’re you thinking?”  
   
He tries to shrug, but as he’s sprawled horizontal and boneless on the ground it comes out as an odd little wiggle. “Nothing much. S’just nice not to _have_ to think about anything, you know? Makes a change. Oh, hey, hold still a minute...”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You got a, a...” Gerard reaches over and picks a small, white feather out of Frank’s hair, holding it up in explanation before letting go and watching the breeze whisk it away. Frank giggles.  
   
“Oh. Oops. Wonder how that got there.”  
   
“You get into a fight with a seagull or something?”  
   
The state he’s in feels a little bit like that halfway-drunk stage where you keep talking even though your mouth and your brain are completely disconnected from each other, and you consequently talk a lot of bullshit that you only think through as it leaves your mouth, by which point it’s usually too late. Hence the seagull comment.  
   
“Yeah, and I lost. Those seagulls are hardcore motherfuckers,” says Frank solemnly. Gerard does his best sage nodding, and a comfortable silence falls. Then Frank sits up, shading his eyes with his hand. “Fuck,” he says, fixated on something in the middle distance. “Look over _there_.”  
   
Gerard does, and he nearly bites his tongue off from trying not to laugh out loud. Walking down the path towards them are a middle-aged couple, who seem to be actively _trying_ to embody every ridiculous stereotype of the middle-class suburbanites. They’re both eying Frank and Gerard disapprovingly, muttering darkly to one another and exchanging looks of boundless disdain. Gerard can feel their eyes on his much-abused Iron Maiden hoodie, on the black-dyed tangle of his hair against his unhealthily pale skin, on Frank’s lip ring and his tattoos and the gaping tears in his jeans and on the way Gerard’s hand and Frank’s are almost touching.  
   
“Oh my God, they’re like... I don’t even know, fucking parodies of themselves,” breathes Gerard, staring in horrified fascination. He hadn’t thought people like this actually, you know, _existed_. Or that it was physically possible to be wearing so many different pastels at once, come to that. Next to him, Frank giggles and props himself up on his elbows. His eyes flick calculatingly between Mr. and Mrs. Walking-Cliché and Gerard’s face, and his mouth curls into a slow, dirty smile.  
   
“Wanna fuck with their heads a bit?” he murmurs, still smirking. Gerard doesn’t know what Frank’s got in mind, but he _really_ wants to. As the couple get a little closer, Gerard’s sure he sees the woman glance at their hands again and mutter something that could easily be _just isn’t natural_ to her husband. Frank stares at Gerard, eyes alight, and suddenly Gerard knows _exactly_ what he has in mind, and, oh, yes fucking _please_. He sits up all the way as Frank follows suit next to him.  
   
Time slows to a crawl as they get closer and closer and Frank waits and waits for the perfect moment, gazing at Gerard with wide, lovestruck eyes, the effect of which is slightly spoiled by his wolfish smirk. It’s faker than Mrs. Walking-Cliché’s blonde highlights, of course, but Gerard’s lungs don’t know this – they seem to have misinterpreted the situation and consequently don’t seem to be working right.  
   
Frank laces his fingers with Gerard’s (warm hands, always too warm; what the fuck is with that anyway?), and licks his lips.  
   
There’s a still, suspended split-second where everything stops completely and then, fuck, Frank’s tongue is basically down his throat, kissing deep and dirty and open-mouthed, ostentatious and pornographic. There’s a hot hand on the back of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, and the tiny part of his brain that’s still working imagines a handprint burned into his skin like a warning. _Fake, fake, fake_ , he chants desperately to himself, but his heart is racing and bright, tingling heat is crawling over every inch of his skin. By the time he’s recovered enough from the shock enough to kiss back instead of sitting there uselessly, Frank’s pulling away again, grinning a broad, shit-eating grin that’s somehow even better than the kiss. Gerard looks over just in time to see their unwilling audience passing with stares of unabashed horror and revolt, his mouth a thin line and hers a small, shocked _o_ , and it’s too much. He collapses back onto the grass, laughing until he’s clutching at a stitch in his side.  
   
“Dude,” snorts Frank, as soon as he’s recovered the power of speech. “You see their fucking _faces?_ ”  
   
“Fuck, tell me about it! I thought they were gonna, like, spontaneously combust or something.”  
   
(Which would, he reflects, actually have been kind of totally awesome.)  
   
Still sniggering to himself, Frank raises a hand and slaps Gerard a clumsy high-five which he nearly misses completely on account of still being too busy gasping for air.  
   
Now the amusement is starting to die down a bit, the realization is starting to kick in like a particularly vicious hangover. What the _fuck_ , why does this keep happening? There are _lines_ , ok, between _friends_ and all sorts of other things that he’s not even going to think about right now, and those lines are there for a _reason_. The lines are there because if they weren’t, shit would get fucked up and no one would know where they stood with anyone else – just like what’s happening _right now_. And what Frank is doing, right, with the random kissing and the coffee and the eagerness and the unnecessary touching and all that shit is blurring the lines until Gerard has no idea _what’s_ going on anymore. And maybe that’s just the way Frank is, but that doesn’t really make it alright. Gerard’s good mood has declined significantly; this whole thing is majorly fucking with his head. All of his earlier doubts are back in full force; what’s Frank’s game? Is this all a big, elaborate come-on or is it just _him?_ Because at this rate, Gerard just _knows_ he’s going to end up miserable and totally in love, and it’s going to suck.  
   
Frank interrupts his dramatic, angsty brooding by poking him in the arm, maybe a bit harder than was really necessary.  
   
“Hey,” he says lightly. “It’s not the end of the world.”  
   
It’s an expression, just a figure of speech, but Gerard can’t help feeling irrationally guilty. Frank grins and pushes his hair off his face, and it feels like an electric shock or something massive almost aligning. Frank’s like that snatch of melody or that one riff that chases maddeningly around your head until it drives you crazy and you’d tear the world apart just to find out where the fuck you know it from. It’s no good – even if it _is_ going to make things weird, he’s got to ask.  
   
“Frank?”  
   
Frank makes a lazy, blurred noise of acknowledgement that sounds a bit like _mmmh?_  
   
“We haven’t... I don’t know, like, met before, have we? Like, before the other day in the alley?”  
   
Frank freezes for a split second, like a scratched record. An expression of _something_ crosses his face, but it’s gone before Gerard can read it. “Nope,” he says, with a carefully nonchalant shrug. “Don’t think so, man.”  
   
Gerard doesn’t know _what_ to think.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
When he gets home, the sun-drenched afternoon is fading. The sky is streaked with inky blue and indigo and he can still feel Frank’s hand on the back of his neck.  
   
He absolutely _doesn’t_ think about that, about Frank, when he jerks off in the shower later. _Absolutely_ not.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
He doesn’t see or hear from Frank the next day, and feels oddly lost. It rains again, so he stays in, wandering restlessly around his apartment. He can’t settle to doing anything; movies are flat and lifeless, sketches all start to morph into the same smirking face, food tastes like cardboard and even sticking his head out of the tiny kitchen window to smoke doesn’t help. He’d go back to The Ark for another coffee, but he’s not altogether positive he’ll find it on his own, and he’s not really anxious to be alone in any more dark alleys.  
   
Normally he’d have no trouble at all with just lazing around on the couch all day, watching crappy TV and drinking his way through a six-pack, but he can’t shake the feeling that there was something important he had to do or say, and it’s making him twitchy and irritable. Part of him desperately wants to call Frank, but the rest of him isn’t so sure. This _thing_ , whatever it is, between them, still feels easy, natural, but it’s starting to scare him a bit. It’s _too_ easy, like everything is stuck on fast-forward. He could use a little space, a minute or two to get his shit together.  
   
Eventually, six o’ clock finds him slumped listlessly on the couch, staring abstractedly at the damp stain on the wall behind the TV. If he squints and turns his head in just the right way, it looks sort of like a dinosaur, which is actually pretty cool.  
   
Fuck. What is his _life?_ Reduced to staring at wallpaper, which he thinks might actually be a step down from watching paint dry. He never used to mind the quiet days; he’s not one of those _people_ people who can’t be alone for five minutes without becoming horribly depressed. He doesn’t know what’s changed.  
   
Well.  
   
Well, that isn’t _really_ true. He _does_ know what’s changed, he’d just really rather not think too hard about it. _All this is_ , he tells himself sternly, _is you overreacting because you haven’t had anything like a real relationship since... ever. He won’t be thinking about you, he’ll be carrying on with his life. Because unlike some people, he_ has _one_. _You’ve seen the guy, what, three times and you’re practically getting_ withdrawal _, what the_ fuck _, Gerard._  
   
This is good for him, he decides. Being this fucking _needy_ is not cool. He’s going to wait a reasonable length of time, he’s going to do other things and maybe see some other people, and maybe _then_ he’ll call Frank. Or maybe he won’t; he could totally do that. _Totally_.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
He makes it all the way to Tuesday before he caves.  
   
He’s distracted and spacey at work all through Monday, but Tuesday is even worse. He’s barely even on the right planet, mixing up acrylics and oil paints, tripping over the sketchbook rack, accidentally selling a short, balding man completely the wrong type of paper and sending a pot of industrial-strength glitter flying. Bob doesn’t shout – just sighs and mutters darkly under his breath as he tries to stop Gerard ruining the business, but he draws the line at the glitter incident and shoos him out of the door for his lunch break half an hour early.  
   
“Whatever you’re so busy brooding about, just go and fucking _do_ it already,” he says, in the long-suffering voice that’s pretty much the only one he uses with Gerard now. “And come back when your head’s screwed back on, alright?”  
   
If that’s not a clear sign of what he should do about it, Gerard doesn’t know what is.  
   
He loiters in the paved space behind the store, smoking a calming cigarette and shifting restlessly from foot to foot. It takes a bit of effort, but he convinces himself he’s imagining his hand shaking on his cell phone and the bite of anticipation in his stomach – because, really, what the _fuck?_ – when he calls Frank’s number and waits for him to pick up. After two rings, Frank’s voice is warm and delighted in his ear and he wants to laugh, wants to run a mile. It feels like giving in, but like relief – like collapsing into bed or the first mouthful of cold beer on a hot day. And if _that’s_ not weird and inappropriate he doesn’t know what is, so he puts on his very best offhand voice and asks Frank if he wants to meet up and maybe grab a pizza somewhere.  
   
Frank sounds genuinely upset. “ _Fuck, I’d love to, I really would, but I got a, a thing I can’t really ditch..._ ” Gerard can picture the flaily hand gesture he’s making.  
   
“Oh,” he says, disappointed, but faking a smile because he knows Frank will be able to hear it in his voice. “Well, you know. It was only, like, a spur-of-the-moment thing. No worries.”  
   
Frank groans. “ _Seriously, you have no idea how much I want to say yes right now. Pizza and, and_ you _. Sounds fucking perfect. Stop fucking tempting me, man, it’s cruel._ ”  
   
Gerard smiles for real because, well. That’s more than just a general comment on pizza, right? “Deal, if you tell me what this urgent thing is.”  
   
“ _It’s a... a meeting, I guess you’d say, but._..” Gerard hears him drag in a deep breath and imagines him rubbing his eyes wearily. “ _But, like, a meeting where I have to deal with Dickhead Ex Issues as well as everything else._ ”  
   
Gerard’s stomach does a funny little flip. Maybe he’s reading too far into this, but, ‘dickhead ex’ – that’s got to be a guy, right? Which, well, sucks for Frank and all, but it whispers to Gerard that he’s in with a chance. He steadies himself against the grimy brick wall. “Ex issues, huh?”  
   
“ _Like you wouldn’t believe_. _It’s like... you know, when it’s ancient fucking history and mostly you just wanna punch them in the face every time you see them? But, like, you used to care so much about them that it’s like there’s this bit of you that can’t forget it._ ”  
   
Well, no, Gerard doesn’t really know. There’s a definite flip side to not really having relationships, and this is it. Still, it’s weird and disorientating to hear it from Frank – he’s the most revoltingly upbeat person in the history of ever, and hearing that ragged edge in his voice does funny things to Gerard’s chest. Frank stops and lets out a short, surprised laugh, sounding more like himself again. “ _Wow, sorry, man. Didn’t mean to dump all my drama on you like that._ ” He hesitates, hopeful but uncertain. “ _But, um. I’m free later, if you wanna hang out?_ ”  
   
It feels like a weight Gerard hadn’t realized was there being lifted off his chest. They plan to meet at Gerard’s again (“ _Fucking boxes everywhere at mine, I just moved in_ – _you’re gonna have to play hostess again,_ ”) and Gerard is so efficient and so alarmingly cheerful for the rest of the day that Bob asks him no less than five times if he’s feeling alright.  
   
As Gerard waves a little elderly lady on her way with a sunny smile and a genuine and completely un-ironic “Have a nice day!”, Bob turns on him, eyes narrowed in a way that would normally have Gerard cowering under the counter.  
   
“Alright, fucker. Who are you, and what have you done with Gerard?”  
   
Gerard rolls his eyes. Not even Bob’s going to rain on his parade. “Oh, ha ha. You’re a fucking _riot_ today. Laugh all you want, Bryar, I’m allowed to be happy,” he says archly, sketching the curl of a smiling mouth onto a scrap of watercolor paper.  
   
“Gerard, you just said _have a nice day_ to someone and you weren’t even being sarcastic. There’s happy, and there’s I-just-took-half-a-bottle-of-Prozac.”  
   
“Nuh uh, no pills this time. Just... happy.”  
   
Bob drops his head into his hands. “The more you talk,” he groans, “The more sure I am that I do _not_ want to know what you were doing out there.”  
   
“Ouch, that was _low_ ,” giggles Gerard, not looking up. He adds a ring to one side of the mouth. “You have a horrible, suspicious mind.”  
   
Bob tips his head back and heaves a martyred sigh. “Well, at least you’re not a health hazard anymore. But if you’re getting laid, I don’t wanna know about it.”  
   
Gerard splutters incoherently in protest, but when he goes back to working on his little doodle and studiously ignoring Bob, his cheeks are burning and he’s trying desperately to keep his imagination under control.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
When Frank leaves again that evening, there’s a light, giddy feeling in Gerard’s chest that does _not_ bode well. He feels warm, contented – it’s sort of like afterglow, actually. He doesn’t exactly have much personal experience to draw from, but he’s pretty sure that this isn’t normal. Probably not exactly healthy, either. He falls into the shower, exhausted. He doesn’t know where Frank gets the energy; he’s like a crazy miniature tornado or something, fucking seriously.  
   
Firmly suppressing a stray thought about what Frank must be like in bed (really, _really_ good, he’d be willing to bet – but, hello, _creeper_ ), he thinks back over Frank being there. It’s all a little bit blurred, like he was sort of drunk the whole time – which is weird, because he had, like, one beer; they both did, and no one gets drunk on _one beer_ , least of all him. They’d argued over pizza toppings: Frank turns out to be _vegetarian_. Frank, Gerard has discovered, also has this incredibly unfair superpower – you take your eyes off him for a fucking _second_ and he’s made off with half your food. Gerard would have had absolutely no qualms about fighting fire with fire, but Frank’s starving puppy face had made him feel so bad he’d given up on that pretty quickly.  
   
And then – he frowns, reaching for the soap. And then they’d started watching a movie, some ridiculous fantasy flick with cringe-worthy special effects and an unbelievably dubious plot – one that some cable channel was showing, one neither of them had seen before. But between Frank curled up _this close_ to him on the tiny couch and clutching at him whenever anything happened, he doesn’t remember the first thing about it. Something with angels, he thinks; he remembers Frank laughing outright at parts of it and grumbling that the wings were much too small to be useful. Gerard’s willing to take his word for it.  
   
He tips his head back into the spray, trying to think. They’d talked for ages, he’s sure, but the finer points of what they were talking _about_ are already slipping away. He knows he’d asked if Frank had managed alright with his Ex Issues, because he definitely remembers Frank’s mouth twisting unhappily to the side. _No_ , he’d said, _not really, ’cause it’s like I said – there’s still, like, ten percent of me that’s still so fucking in love with him, even after all this fucking time._  
   
And he’d looked so utterly miserable for a second that Gerard’s breath had caught in his throat and he’d been about to wrap a comforting arm around Frank’s shoulders, but then Frank had flashed a smile that felt like the sun coming out or something being set alight. _But the other ninety?_ he’d said, grinning, _that’s good to go_.  
   
So Frank’s _damaged_ ;what a departure from Gerard’s meager and ill-fated track record – not. He’d sighed inwardly because this sort of thing has _never_ ended well before. Gerard had had to change the subject before he embarrassed himself, but Frank had been quite willing to join him in shouting at the TV when something especially ludicrous happened (roughly every five or six minutes). But some shred of that uneasy, nagging feeling had started lingered Gerard’s head, occasionally spiking when Frank did or said something Gerard was _positive_ he’d seen somewhere before.  
   
Gerard turns off the water, steps out and reaches for the towel, too tired to care that he’s dripping all over everything. His clothes aren’t going anywhere; he’ll pick them up tomorrow. Maybe. Stumbling into his pajamas – actually just ancient sweats and a t-shirt that had been retired from the regular clothes pile when they became too holey to wear in public – he crosses back across the narrow hallway and collapses gratefully into bed.  
   
He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, dreaming about curling smiles and ink and feathers.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
The warm, light feeling lasts him all through Wednesday, and by Thursday he’s feeling tightly-wound and twitchy again. He tells himself he’s coming down with something, because there is utterly _no way_ this can be what it looks like. He snaps at Bob, who just looks knowingly at him and gives him plenty of space. He can’t concentrate again, but at least he manages to function well enough that Schechter won’t have any reason to just fire his ass.  
   
The uneasy feeling intensifies as he walks home, buzzing in his skull and slowly driving him insane – he hears phantom footsteps creeping up behind him and feels phantom eyes on his back. There’s never anyone there when he turns round, but it still makes him uncomfortable. He tugs at the neck of his shirt, drawing in a lungful of heavy, muggy air. There’s more rain on its way, but maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s what’s getting to him; maybe it’s just air pressure building before the storm can break. It’s not, he knows it’s not, but it’s easier, so he goes with that.  
   
He’s half-expecting something to happen, but it doesn’t. He feels almost disappointed as he fumbles for his key and shoves his door open. He spends the next half hour pacing restlessly around his tiny apartment, feeling it (whatever _it_ is) like a swarm of bees trapped under his skin. It feels like being sick, or being _about_ to be sick, or waiting for something big, or – well, he doesn’t know. But it feels _wrong_ and it’s horrible.  
   
It’s a relief when his cell phone buzzes against his hip. _1 new message from: Mikey_ , declares the tiny screen. He drops down onto the couch and presses the _ok_ button, the corners of his mouth curling up as he reads it – _u were right about ray. i owe u $5._  
   
He texts back – _yeah? told you so_. _when am i ever wrong?_ He is absolutely not above passing the time by annoying Mikey. In under a minute, the screen lights up again.  
   
 _Yeah, yeah_ , it reads. _ur a fuckin genius. am at ray’s now – i’ll give u $10 instead of $5 if u’ll pick up my asthma meds for me?_  
   
Gerard considers. It’d be good to do _something_ , just to take the edge off the tension, but he suddenly finds he doesn’t really want to get up. Then again, he feels he should at least do _something_ vaguely productive today, and if he doesn’t go, Mikey’ll probably have to leave Ray’s early and go himself. Knowing Mikey’s philosophy of why-do-tomorrow-what-you-can-put-off-until-the-day-after-that, this is probably, like, the last day before his old meds run out. He’s got emergency ones, so it isn’t the end of the world, but they make him drowsy and irritable and he whines like a bitch about having to take them. Plus, the pharmacy closes soon, and it’s only a few streets away from his apartment. Why not, Gerard decides, eventually. He’s feeling generous.  
   
Plus, if he pisses Mikey off, Mikey won’t hesitate to tell their mother what Gerard actually means when he tells her he’s eating _fresh fruit and vegetables_ , i.e. cheeseburgers and pizza with the occasional Taco Bell or something thrown in for variety’s sake. It’d be a low blow, but Mikey would totally do it. Gerard knows he would, because he’d do exactly the same if the boot was on the other foot.  
   
 _fine_ , he texts back, _but u owe me one. u can come and get them tomorrow,_ _if i’m out they’ll be on the table._  
   
Mikey should have a key, after all; the lazy fucker can come and pick them up himself. With a concentrated effort of will, Gerard drags himself into the hall to find a jacket or something, and rummages in a pile of discarded sketches and photocopied résumés for his wallet. With a grunt of triumph, he extracts his hand, shaking loose papers free. But then, just as he’s about to leave, someone knocks on the door – four knocks, quick and syncopated, and Gerard doesn’t even need to wonder who it is. His heart kicks slightly and he’s at the door without thinking, before he even knows what he’s doing.  
   
When he manages to get it open, his breath catches slightly. It’s Frank, just like he’d known it would be, but, _fuck_. The moment passes quickly, but for a split second he’s so inhumanly beautiful and so almost-familiarthat Gerard almost can’t breathe. His heart starts to thump against his ribcage; he feels dizzy, punch-drunk, and there is no fucking _way_ Frank should be having this effect on him, not now, not so soon.  
   
“Hey,” Frank practically _chirps_ , beaming. “I was in the neighborhood and I got lost. This place is a fucking rabbit warren in the dark, seriously. You gonna let me in?”  
   
Gerard is less than convinced that Frank ‘got lost’. Somehow, this doesn’t make him nearly as confused or annoyed as it should. In fact, it feels sort of like there’s a helium balloon expanding in his ribcage.  
   
“Um. Sure?” he says, swallowing. What the fuck is wrong with him all of a sudden? This is a step backwards; he’d gotten to the point where he could hold a reasonably coherent conversation with Frank, but that’s apparently all gone to hell. It takes a second or two, because his brain seems to have disconnected from something fairly crucial (like, maybe his spinal cord), but he manages to galvanize his legs into action and stumble out of the way.  
   
“Sorry about the mess,” he says apologetically, as he leads Frank down the narrow hallway, although he privately thinks that it’s fucking lucky the mess is at practically a record low. You can actually see the carpet and everything. Frank giggles.  
   
“You’re funny. This isn’t _mess_. This is just... you know, stuff. Only it’s where you need it to be.”  
   
“Right?” Gerard momentarily forgets himself and makes an expansive hand gesture that knocks the hall mirror askew and disturbs a towering stack of paper balanced on the edge of the wonky end table. “That’s what I keep saying! It’s not mess if you know where everything is!”  
   
Frank’s grinning, and it’s more than slightly distracting. “And do you?”  
   
“Yes! There’s totally a fucking system and everything.”  
   
“Right. So it’s _fine_.”  
   
“ _Yes_.” Gerard twists round to high-five Frank and tries not to stare at the play of the shadows on his face in the dim light. “So. Um, drink?”  
   
“Fuck, that’d be _awesome_ , thanks,” says Frank fervently.  
   
“In here, then...” Gerard pushes open to the door to the pokey kitchen, fingers slipping on the light switch. He crosses to the fridge, and Frank jumps up onto the counter. “Beer alright with you?” he asks, blinking in the glaring light flooding out of the decrepit fridge. It’s looking rather empty; he needs to do a shopping run when he gets his pay check.  
   
“Whatever’s cool, seriously,” says Frank from behind him. Gerard pulls out two cans, heavy and cool in his hands, and passes one to Frank. Frank cracks his open and takes a long sip, eyes fluttering closed in a blissful expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on someone on the receiving end of a blowjob. Gerard’s hands definitely _do not_ shake slightly as they slip on the ring pull of his own can.  
   
“Fuck, I needed that,” Frank hums happily, after a few seconds.  
   
“Bad day?” Gerard leans against the fridge, feeling it humming against his back, solid and reassuring. He’s suddenly painfully aware of how small a space they’re sharing. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to be closer to Frank, because, fuck, he really, _really_ does, but it feels like sharing the kitchen with a black hole – get too close and you’ll get dragged in, whether you like it or not.  
   
Frank shrugs. “Long,” he says, “And fucking _boring_.”  
   
“Fuck, mine _too_ ,” says Gerard with feeling.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
Gerard nods sagely, turning the can slowly in his hand. This feels... odd. Like the stupid small talk is just covering up for something else, like they could go on like this for hours without ever getting to what matters, just talking in circles and circles around it. Like there’s an elephant in the room, and he knows it’s _there_ ,but he can’t put his finger on what it _is_. He takes another mouthful of his beer, anticipating the warm buzz. This is ridiculous, he decides, this heavy, unspoken tension. He’s Taking Charge.  
   
“So,” he says, shooting Frank a sly, sidelong look and completely taking himself by surprise with his own daring. “You got lost, huh?”  
   
Frank doesn’t look remotely embarrassed at being called out. A slow, lazy grin unfolds across his face. “Alright,” he says. “So I didn’t get lost.”  
   
The room seems to shrink, and Gerard is suddenly hot and uncomfortable in his much-abused Queen t-shirt, hyper-aware of everything. Taking Charge was, in retrospect, not quite as clever as he’d thought. Frank puts his beer down, the muted _thunk_ deafening in the small room. He slides down off the counter with an easy, feline grace, and something in the back of Gerard’s brain starts to panic slightly, because this is _happening_ and if there are butterflies in his stomach, they’re those monster ones the size of dinner plates and it all feels so utterly _right_ , but at the same time it’s like gravity, like falling, like he’s running out of time before he loses any choice he might ever have had.  
   
There’s a frozen, hesitant moment where Frank is close enough that Gerard can feel the heat rolling off his skin, and it’s a world away from the moment before that stupid kiss in the park, but it still feels like they’ve done this before. It’s too much, too fast, and it leaves him breathless. Frank steps closer, closer, leaning into Gerard.  
   
“You wanna?” he murmurs against Gerard’s ear. Gerard nods jerkily, not trusting himself to string words together properly, then lets out a shaky laugh.  
   
“Fuck. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I met you – like, what, a week ago?”  
   
Frank shrugs. “Does it matter?” he says, and Gerard can’t argue with that.  
   
The instant Frank’s mouth meets his, Gerard makes a hitchy noise in the back of his throat because, fuck, this _can’t_ be only the second time this has happened. It’s electric, searing; one of Frank’s hands is in his hair and the other one is wrapped around his back as Frank pushes him up against the fridge. It feels like re-learning an old song you never really forgot, sweet and disorientating. Frank makes a low, wordless noise that goes straight to the pit of Gerard’s stomach as he kisses hungrily, all teeth and tongue, enthusiastic and demanding.  
   
Frank’s teeth graze Gerard’s lip and he hears himself let out an embarrassingly loud moan. He expects Frank to pull away or laugh that weird, high-pitched laugh of his, but instead he feels him shudder against him, grinding his hips a little and sending hot shivers through every inch of Gerard.  
   
“Not – fair,” Frank growls, mouthing at the near-translucent skin of Gerard’s neck. “ _God_ , you sound so fucking good when you do that...”  
   
Gerard huffs a laugh. “look who’s fucking – talking,” he says breathlessly. “Motherfucking _tease_. With, with the – ” There was going to be more to that sentence, something about parks and cigarettes and fucking _personal space_ , but Frank’s tongue is licking into his mouth and suddenly it really, _really_ doesn’t matter anymore. Frank tugs reproachfully on his hair – _no more talking_ – and shifts his hips, pushing insistently up against him. Gerard makes a weird, choked-off noise, because his dick is suddenly _very_ interested in the situation. Frank seems to take it as an invitation, edging his thigh between Gerard’s and slipping a warm hand under the hem of his shirt. Gerard lets out a bitten-off gasp and Frank grins, sliding his other hand down between them and resting it teasingly lightly on the growing bulge in the front of Gerard’s jeans.  
   
“You got anything important to do tonight?” murmurs Frank in a low voice that Gerard thinks may have melted what’s left of his brain (not much, by this point). Frank kisses along Gerard’s jaw, down his neck and proceeds to suck a truly obnoxious hickey onto his collarbone. Gerard’s head thunks back against the fridge. “Because I gotta tell you,” Frank continues, voice breathy, “I’m totally not above blowing you _right here_ , if you’re cool with that.”  
   
Gerard’s brain really _does_ shut down then, of everything but a ticker-tape of _YESYESYESYES_ and the vague wish that his fifteen-year-old self could see him now. His brain crowds with images of Frank on his knees and he makes a noise he’s pretty sure he’s never made before, his stomach dropping right through the floor. More than anything else, he can’t believe his luck; he must have some fucking _amazing_ karma or something.  
   
“Fuck, no – oh, wait, wait, wait. Frank. Frank, _shit_.” He groans. “I’ve gotta go pick something up from the pharmacy.”  
   
Frank pulls back and just the sight of him is nearly enough to make Gerard change his mind; Mikey would understand, right? Frank is breathing hard, his hair’s a tangled mess and his mouth is slick and red, his cheeks flushed. “Oh,” he says. For a split second, he looks sort of disappointed, but then his mouth curls into a cocky, lopsided smile and he waggles his eyebrows. “Well. What about _afterwards?_ ”  
   
Gerard laughs, weak-kneed and light-headed. He still can’t believe this, that Frank actually _wants_ him; it’s ridiculous. “You’re a real fucking charmer, anyone ever tell you that? But, um. Fucking _yes_.” He kisses Frank one last time, just because he _can_ , then sighs and takes Frank’s hand. “Come on, then. We’re going for a walk.”  
   
The unease coiled in his stomach has completely disappeared.

  


\+ + +

  
The short walk to the pharmacy is an experience for Gerard. Namely, an experience that consists of him trying desperately not to embarrass himself despite Frank’s best efforts – hanging off his shoulders, groping his ass, whispering in his ear. He does it in the same way as he seems to do everything else: wholehearted and fearless and much too fast to possibly be safe. It’s a game, Gerard thinks, and he doesn’t _want_ to lose, but he draws the line at Frank going not-so-surreptitiously for the zipper on his jeans. He jumps about a foot in the air with a startled yelp.  
   
“ _Jesus_ , Frank! We are _not_ doing this in the middle of the _street!_ ”  
   
He was going for the sort of I-am-disgusted-by-and-disappointed-in-you voice that brooks no argument, but what comes out instead is a squeaky combination of hysterical laughter and shrill indignation. It sort of works, though, because Frank mock-pouts but at least keeps his hands to himself the rest of the way. It’s _Frank_ and, holy shit, Gerard’s a little alarmed by how much he _wants_ , but public sex is essentially (literally, in fact) his worst nightmare, no matter who it’s with. The streetlights cast odd shadows on Frank’s face, turning him into something strange and otherworldly, with impossibly dark eyes and a broad, feral smile.  
   
The pharmacy is still open when they reach it, thank fuck, spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk. Frank looks like himself again, and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.  
   
“Um,” he says. “I think I’ll just... you know, hang here for a bit. Pharmacies freak me out.”  
   
“S’cool. I’ll only be a minute.” It’s kind of a weird thing to be scared of, thinks Gerard, but, ok. He’s spent so much time in various pharmacies over the years (for Mikey as often as for himself) that he’s basically immune to any creep-factor they might have for other people. Plus, he has _such_ a thing about needles that he’s not in much of a position to judge Frank. “Oh – actually...” Gerard digs in his pocket and extracts a crumpled twenty, handing it to Frank. “There’s a twenty-four hour supermarket just round the corner. You could go and grab a six-pack, if you’re feeling helpful?”  
   
Frank takes the money, nodding solemnly like he’s been entrusted with the fate of the civilized world, then vanishes into the dark.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
Gerard finishes up in the pharmacy, then pushes open the door and leaves with the little paper bag tucked carefully into his jacket pocket. It’s like now Frank isn’t right _there_ anymore he can think almost clearly again, and the anticipation is sharp-edged and heady. It’s sinking in a bit now, but he’s not... surprised. As if it was always going to happen, like the reason he’s not surprised is because he was sort of always expecting it. He sits down on the bench on the corner to wait. The supermarket is always inexplicably busy; there’s probably a line.  
   
“Way! Over here!”  
   
He turns automatically in the direction of the voice, the stops, his forehead furrowing in confusion. He’s sure he didn’t just imagine that, but the street’s completely empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he catches a flash of movement and his head snaps around so fast he’s pretty sure he’s given himself whiplash, but there’s still nothing there. He exhales slowly, trying to get his heart rate back under control. He’s still twitchy from the incident in the alleyway; he’s positive he wasn’t this much of a wimp before.  
   
“Way!”  
   
Ok, he is _definitely_ not imagining this. Almost without thinking, he stands, slow and careful, listening so hard that even the drag of his own clothing is loud in his ears, every sense on red alert.  
   
He scans the dark-shrouded street, expecting... well, expecting _something_ , at least, but still no dice.  
   
“Hello?” he calls, uncertainly, trying to sound braver than he feels. “Um. Were you talking to me? ’Cause I gotta tell you, this whole disappearing act thing’s freaking me out a bit.”  
   
Where the fucking _fuck_ is Frank when you need him?  
   
That’s when it happens. There’s no creeping sense of foreboding or moment of _ohshit_ , just sudden, blinding pain in the back of his head. He crumples to the pavement with a choked cry, his vision swimming and nausea crashing over him.  
   
The dark shape he thought he’d glimpsed earlier moves to stand in front of him, and sheer, unadulterated terror floods him completely. Everything’s blurring and shifting in front of his eyes and it sort of looks like the thing’s made of shadows; Gerard can’t see any indication of a face, just something dark and indistinct. Whatever it is, it stands impassively in front of him as he tries desperately to cling onto consciousness, just... waiting.  
   
Gerard’s last truly rational thoughts are a sudden, bone-deep certainty that this is not human, and the sickening realization that he’s in a long, long way over his head.  
   
Then the world tilts dangerously and a blaze of white light explodes into it from somewhere to his right. Illogically, he starts to panic – suddenly, the issue isn’t that he’s going to die here; shouldn’t he be trying to go _into_ the light? What with him lying prone on the sidewalk and the way the light isn’t coalescing into a handy tunnel or anything, he’s not seeing how that’s going to work. What happens if he doesn’t? Does it disappear and leave him trapped here? He tries to turn his head to see better, but a fresh wave of agony puts paid to that pretty quickly as everything lurches and threatens to disappear altogether.  
   
Whatever the light is, Gerard’s mystery attacker doesn’t seem happy about it. As the world begins to turn black around the edges and Gerard’s eyes start to slide shut, he could swear it looks almost like two figures, light and shadow at each other’s throats. Time seems to distort; it could have been hours or only a few seconds later when something changes.  
   
Gerard doesn’t realize what it is at first, then it’s all over in a split second.  
   
The light slams the shadowy creature against the wall and drives something almost like a hand through where the thing’s chest should be, and then pulls it out again clutching a lump of something black and formless. Gerard doesn’t know anymore how much of this is just his brain’s desperate hallucinations in what he’s sure are his last minutes. But then, there’s an unearthly, eldritch shriek as the shadowed thing dissolves, a noise that seems to split the air around it and he’s suddenly very, _very_ sure that this is all happening. For several seconds, everything’s melting and spinning, and his mind goes blank of everything except _pain_.  
   
Then there are hot, sticky hands on his face and the last thing he sees is Frank, leaning over him, eyes wide with terror as he curses like a sailor and begs Gerard not to close his eyes.  
   
Then everything goes black.  
   
   
   
   


**_.three_ **

When he wakes up, nothing hurts.  
   
Well, except his head, that is, which hurts like _fuck_ , but that’s all. For several seconds, he doesn’t move or open his eyes, just lies very, very still and takes stock of things. His head feels like it’s been split open and should be spilling his brains all over the place, and he can feel every throb of blood that goes through it. So whatever happens, getting up and running like hell is definitely out, because he just knows if he tries he’s going to either black out again or puke his guts up. He doesn’t know where he is but he really, really hopes there aren’t mirrors. Gore in shitty horror movies is one thing, but _real_ blood is quite another, especially when it’s your own. If there are mirrors, he decides, he’s _definitely_ gonna faint.  
   
Speaking of which, where _is_ he? There’s light filtering through his eyelids, but that doesn’t tell him much. Gradually, avoiding the nausea lurking at the edges of his consciousness, he shifts his awareness down to what he’s lying on. It feels like a mattress, and there’s some kind of blanket covering him up. A bed, maybe, then, but not his. So whose –  
   
 _Frank_. He remembers seeing Frank’s face, right before he passed out.  
   
Cautiously, he cracks an eye open.  
   
It looks like the attic of a warehouse or something – a big, square space with the corrugated ceiling slanting across at an angle. The light he’d wondered about is flooding in from a bank of windows on one side and spilling across the rough concrete floor. The mattress he’s lying on is in the middle, and the floor around him is littered with heaps of clothes and fast-food debris and, for some bizarre reason, feathers. But before he can even _try_ to make sense of that –  
   
“Gerard! Fuck, thank fucking God, thought you weren’t gonna wake up and it was all my fucking fault that I wasn’t there sooner, and – ”  
   
Frank’s right _there_ , kneeling by the mattress, tear-stained and puffy eyed, his voice cracking, and something in Gerard’s chest tightens painfully.  
   
“Frank?” It comes out weak and hoarse, and he winces. Fuck, he sounds _awful_. He runs his tongue over his dry lips and tries again. “Frank, what... what the fuck _happened?_ We, we went out, and then I was waiting, and then there was this... _thing_ ,and this _light_ , and – and I couldn’t see you, ’n then...” He frowns slightly, trying to assemble things into some kind of sense. “’N then you were _there_ , and...”  
   
He trails off, and Frank hesitates for a split second – not long, but Gerard sees it.  
   
“Some guy attacked you,” he says, and it sounds almost rehearsed, somehow, like Frank had this all worked out. “Saw him hit you, and you went down, so I started running. Didn’t fucking get there soon enough, but I think I scared him off, at least...”  
   
“So – that, that weird light, that was _you?_ ”  
   
Frank’s forehead creases up, confused and concerned. “Gerard, there was no light. You hit your head pretty hard, you’re probably, like, concussed or something. I mean, I saw you collapse and _I_ didn’t see anything...”  
   
He looks as earnest and sincere as Gerard’s ever seen him, but Gerard isn’t buying this crap. He knows what he saw, damnit, and he _knows_ Frank’s lying. Something in him just _snaps_ , because he fucking _knows_ there’s so much he isn’t being told and it’s starting to seriously piss him off. Whatever this is about, he’s involved, whether he wants to be or not. Before he even knows what he’s saying, everything that’s been grating at him starts spilling out.  
   
“Bullshit,” he explodes, his voice rising as he gets more agitated. “Fuck, Frank, why can’t you just... fucking tell me what actually happened? ’Cause there’s a _lot_ of weird shit that happens around you. You think I didn’t notice any of it?” He pushes himself up onto his elbows. “That first time I saw you? How the fuck were you just _there_ like that, huh? And then after that, with the coffee? You could have been there for hours, and there you were again, fucking right on time. And with Brendon! Fuck, I don’t even _know_ what’s going on there, but I’m not fucking stupid, alright? Frank, I’ve nearly fucking _died._ Twice! What the fuck can’t you just _tell_ me?!”  
   
He’s half shouting, ignoring the heavy, dull throbbing in the back of his head and the stinging of his parched, raw throat. For several seconds, Frank says nothing. He looks hurt, at first, and then angry, and then just... blank, which is the scariest thing of all. It’s like the happy-go-lucky Frank he was just starting to _get_ has fallen away, or maybe he’s just buried under the stress and exhaustion; Gerard can’t tell.  
   
“Frank?” Gerard says, in a very small voice. Now the heat of the moment has worn off, it’s beginning to dawn on him that he’s sort of just yelled at Frank for saving his life. _Again_. Fuck, he’s not usually like this, is he? Now he looks like an ungrateful asshole and paranoid to boot; fucking _great_.  
   
Frank is silent for a little longer, and Gerard squirms unhappily, his fingers digging into the thin, dirty mattress. When Frank starts to speak, his voice is low and flat, his eyes unreadable.  
   
“Do you have _any idea_ how I felt last night? Seeing you lying on the sidewalk in your own fucking blood? Carrying you back here and fucking _praying_ it wasn’t too late? Gerard, you were unconscious and you were _still screaming_.”  
   
Gerard swallows. He’s suddenly got nothing to say.  
   
Frank stands, drawing a deep, unsteady breath, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and suddenly looking twice as old. “Fuck, you think I don’t _want_ to tell you what’s going on? You think I wouldn’t do it in a fucking _heartbeat_ if I didn’t think you’d run a mile? You don’t wanna know. It’s better like this.”  
   
“So there _is_ something?” Admittedly, he might be losing sight of his priorities a bit, but it’s a relief to hear that he hasn’t just made the whole thing up. Frank sits down again, looking drained and defeated.  
   
“Shit, of _course_ there’s something. You said it yourself, didn’t you? Look, if I thought – if I thought I _could_ tell you, I would.”  
   
There’s something about the set of Frank’s jaw that tells Gerard he’s going to have to change tactics if he wants to get anything out of him.  
   
“Frank?” he says, gently, then hesitates. He knows what he wants to say, can taste the words, but it feels like crossing a line, jumping off the edge. Fuck it, he thinks. He’s already fucked this up so badly it can’t really get any worse; he might as well. “Frank, I’m not gonna _run away_. It feels like...” he huffs a weak laugh, realizing how ridiculous this whole thing is. “Fuck, this is gonna sound weird, ok? Just – hear me out. It’s like I... I knew you in another life, or something. Like, there are times when I’m fucking _sure_ I... remember you, I guess. I wanna know what’s so fucking awful that you think it’d get rid of me.”  
   
He tries a smile and he doesn’t think it quite works, but he sees Frank’s resolve crumble anyway. Fuck, he’s _so close_ to finding out what the hell’s been going on since the beginning of all this. Frank shakes his head and fucking _laughs_. It’s a hard, unfamiliar sound, completely different to the bizarre giggle that hasn’t yet failed to make Gerard smile too.  
   
“Alright.” Frank exhales deeply and runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Fuck knows, I’ve tried everything else and none of it’s worked. Might as well. Ok. You said... you said it’s like you knew me in some other life, right?”  
   
Gerard nods, not wanting to interrupt in case Frank wimps out and refuses to tell him anything.  
   
“Right. Well, you’re wrong. Wanna know what it is? Like, _really_ know what it is, not some... some fucking recycled hippie bullshit?”  
   
Gerard bridles slightly at that, because, hey, how was _he_ supposed to know? He does want to, though, wants this desperate, headlong thing _explained_ , because it really is scaring him now. He nods again, but Frank seems to be waiting for a real answer, so he says, “I do.” It comes out as less than a whisper, but it seems to be enough. Frank _looks_ at him, eyes huge and dark, and it all comes spilling out.  
   
“It wasn’t – wasn’t just the one. I’ve known you in _every_ other life, alright?” He gets up and starts to pace restlessly, circling and doubling back on himself. “And it’s the same, every _fucking_ time. You’re born, and I find you, and I think maybe it’s gonna turn out differently this time, and then _he_ gets to you and you _die_. Every. Fucking. _Time_. And, fuck, I’ve got to try and keep you _safe_ , and I’m starting to think this is the only way it canbe.” He stops suddenly, like his batteries have died. Frank turns to face him, and the sheer weight of grief in his eyes knocks all the breath out of Gerard. “It’s a fucking cliché, but it’s like... like I could never win,” he says quietly. “Not with you.”  
   
Silence falls, heavy and choking. Neither of them moves or says a word. Frank looks like he’s about to cry or start breaking things or maybe both and Gerard’s mind is a staticky roar of blank shock because, really, what the _fuck_. Eventually, Frank drops down again, resting on his knees.  
   
“ _That’s_ what I didn’t want to tell you,” he says. His smile is brittle and falsely bright and Gerard’s finding it hard to breathe. “Freaked out yet?”  
   
His voice shakes dangerously and his eyes look slightly shinier than normal, and that’s the moment when Gerard feels his heart break, a clean line right down the middle.  
   
“Fuck,” he says softly. “Fuck, _Frank_. You should have... God, _every time?_ That’s just... fucking...” He runs out of words. He’s shell-shocked; he’s never seen Frank like this, never had any _idea_ thatit would be anything like this. He opens his mouth to tell Frank it’s alright, to make some stupid promise that he won’t die on him, that he can get out alive, that this time it _will_ be different, but nothing comes out and he shuts it again.  
   
Frank misinterprets his silence and takes a deep, unsteady breath, his hands clenching and unclenching, knuckles bleaching white and nails digging into his palms.  
   
“Fuck. Look, I don’t, like, blame you or anything. This shit would fuck anyone up. Just. Fuck, look, you’ve _always_ had a choice,” he says fiercely, all in a rush, reaching for one of Gerard’s hands then stopping himself at the last minute. Gerard’s chest tightens slightly. “If you tell me right now, or – fuck, _ever_ – that you want out and you never wanna see my fucking face again, you can leave and I won’t follow you. I’m not gonna fucking force this on you and I’m not gonna promise you’ll never see me again – you know what it’s like, like magnets or something – ”  
   
“Like gravity,” Gerard murmurs.  
   
“Yeah. But, fuck, I will _try_.” He’s breathing hard like he’s close to tears.  
   
Gerard frowns, fitting what he knows into the gaps and struggling to pull it all together. This is ridiculous, he should be laughing in Frank’s face right now, but he isn’t. He... he really believes it, to his surprise; there’s something bone-deep telling him that Frank’s not crazy, that this insane B-movie parody is actually his _life_. It’s terrifying and fucking confusing, like it’s all gotten too big and too serious much too fast and it’s making his head spin. He isn’t someone who gets mixed up with all this big, dramatic stuff, he’s Gerard-the-awkward-kid-who-works-in-a-store, for fuck’s sake. This shit doesn’t _happen_ to people, least of all _him._ He feels that they’ve missed a step or two between pizza and shitty movies and _oh, by the way, I’m sort of your guardian angel_.  
   
“So, wait, wait,” he says eventually. “Let me, just. So you... like, _remember_ the other times? Fuck, how come you do and I don’t? And, and, you said you had to try and keep me safe. What...?”  
   
And suddenly, he’s thinking about feathers and bad movies and weird boys who _glow_ and save your life from time to time and _it all makes sense_.  
   
“ _No_ ,” he breathes. His skull really does feel like it’s about to explode now. “No. Fucking. _Way_. _Fuck_. Just. This is... just...”  
   
“Yeah.” Frank looks embarrassed, and faintly apologetic.  
   
“But, but there’s not even, like, any such thing as – ”  
   
He can’t say it, physically can’t frame the word. It’s too big, too weird, too ridiculous.  
   
Frank looks unhappily at the ground, and Gerard lets out a startled, breathless laugh.  
   
“Mother _fucker_ , Frank, I didn’t even think when I said – what was it? – something like, ‘what are you, my – ’”  
   
“Ugh, don’t even say it!” Frank cringes, his nose scrunching up. “It’s so fucking... clichéd.”  
   
Gerard feels lightheaded, like all the shitty stuff that’s ever happened to him was to make up for this, for winning some kind of giant cosmic lottery. He can feel himself grinning like a maniac, and Frank rolls his eyes, looking less worn and tired and much more like the Frank that Gerard thinks he might be just a bit in love with.  
   
“Oh my _God_. Seriously,” groans Frank, aiming a surprisingly intimidating death stare at Gerard. “Don’t even fucking _think_ it.”  
   
It’s much, _much_ too late for that. Gerard’s brain is assailed by the bizarre image of Frank, standing in a field, looking monumentally pissy and sporting a set of grubby white robes, a wonky halo, a dented bugle and a pair of feathery wings as ratty as the laces on his converse. In Gerard's mind's eye, he gestures irritably with a half-smoked cigarette while a huddle of shepherds stare at him in blind, rabbity terror. ‘ _Look_ ,’ says the imaginary Frank impatiently, shoving one voluminous white sleeve back up to his elbow, ‘ _I can't make it much simpler. Over that way. Follow the big shiny star, can't miss it. In a barn. This kid, son of God, kind of a big deal. You fuckers coming to behold Him or not?_ ’  
   
Gerard has always had what his kindergarten teacher described as a _disturbingly vivid imagination_. Frank is still grumbling and threatening him with physical torture if he doesn’t stop imagining it _right the fuck now._ Gerard ignores him. He feels like a kid on Christmas morning. “I’ve got a fucking _guardian angel!_ ” he crows, ecstatic. “This is _insane_. So, it’s, it’s _real?_ The whole angel thing? Like, is it just you guys or is there, you know, other stuff out there too? Like, vampires and zombies and shit?”  
   
Frank groans again and flips him off (neither angelic nor guardianly, in Gerard’s opinion), but at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown anymore. Gerard tracks the flood of incredulous, giddy relief as it spreads across his face and into his shoulders, his arms, his hands. “Should’ve known this would happen,” he says, grinning and dropping his head into his hands. “Fucking _hell_ , Gerard, only you. You done yet?” he asks.  
   
“Yes,” Gerard says, wiping his eyes. “Sorry. So – ” something connects then, and his eyes widen. “Oh my _God!_ Brendon!”  
   
Frank nods wearily. “Yeah. The Ark, it’s sort of... yeah. You wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t shown you where it was.”  
   
Gerard laughs again, delighted. “The _Ark_ , fuck, I should have known! And I fucking thought there was something about you two! Like you were sort of... the same, somehow. And, and that guy at the bar that time, the singer – ”  
   
“Gabe?”  
   
Gerard’s eyes get even wider, and Frank looks like he’s debating the probability of them falling right out of his head.  
   
“No _way._ He’s, he’s _Gabriel?_ Like, _the_ Gabriel?”  
   
“Well, yeah... but, like, no. It sort of doesn’t work like that. He’s, like, the _current_ Gabriel, I guess you’d say? Archangel’s a rank and Gabriel’s more like a... a job description. No one pays much attention to all that shit anymore. It’s sort of dated.”  
   
“Wow. That’s, that’s...” he flails wordlessly for a few seconds, then pauses for thought. “Huh. That’s kind of awesome, actually. Oh, man. Sorry. S’just kind of a lot to take in, you know?”  
   
Frank gives him a look that says _no freaking duh, asshat_ , then lapses into silence, letting Gerard get his head around it. After a couple of minutes, Gerard props himself up and looks Frank in the eye.  
   
“You really thought I was gonna run away?”  
   
“Oh, come _on_ , you can’t blame me for that. That’d be, like, the _normal_ reaction.”  
   
“Asshole, are you implying that I’m in any way _not normal?_ ”  
   
“I’m not implying, I’m stating. But I’m stating in a very _caring_ way.” Frank pats Gerard’s leg consolingly, somehow managing to keep a straight face.  
   
“S’fair enough,” concedes Gerard, feeling the warmth of Frank’s hand through his jeans. It feels like it’s spreading through him, lighting him up from the inside out.  
   
“So,” he says, because, fuck, do they have _a lot_ to talk about. “You’re _actually_. Like, an, an... _angel?_ ”  
   
Frank shrugs, because of course this is fucking _mundane_ for him, and makes little sarcastic jazz hands. “Yeah. But probably not the way you’re imagining it.”  
   
“How would you know how I’m imagining it?”  
   
“Well, if you’re seeing anything with, like, harps or robes or praying or fucking _singing_ , you’re about as wrong as it’s possible to _be_. We’re not... we’re not angels in, like, the religious sense. You _made_ us part of that; we’re not. We’re just... different. From you. It’s like, there’s us and there’s you. I don’t know how to... ugh, how to explain it.”  
   
 “Alright,” says Gerard. “So, like. Wings?”  
   
He winces. He’d meant to phrase that a bit more subtly, but he can’t help himself. This is quite possibly the most fucking epic thing to happen to anyone _ever_. His life is _awesome._ Frank sighs in a resigned sort of way and looks at him with something bordering on pity.  
   
“Gerard, where the fuck do you think I’ve been hiding _wings_ all this time? This is a _human body_ , if you hadn’t noticed.”  
   
Gerard _has_ noticed, as a matter of fact. Frank stands and turns around, demonstrating that said human body is very nice but thoroughly wingless. Gerard huffs, but at least he restrains himself from making some kind of inappropriate joke, which is an achievement. He’s buzzing, sugar-high.  
   
“Fine, fine. No need to be an asshole about it. So what’s with all the feathers?”  
   
“Birds,” says Frank, looking more comfortable and shifting into a sitting position next to Gerard on the stained concrete floor. “They can tell what I am. They sort of... gravitate, I guess.”  
   
“So when I asked if you’d had a fight with a seagull – ”  
   
“ – You actually weren’t that far off.” Frank grins and Gerard’s stomach does this totally unnecessary swoopy thing because Frank just totally finished his fucking sentence. There’s so much he wants to know; he doesn’t know where to start.  
   
“So,” he says, after several seconds of furious internal debate over what to ask first. “Guardian angel. How do you get that gig? Do you get, like, assigned people or something?”  
   
Frank grimaces, dropping his head into his hands again in what Gerard is coming to recognize as a gesture of exasperation that cannot adequately be expressed through words. “Fuck, where do you humans _get_ this stuff? There sort of... _aren’t_ really guardian angels. It’s not, like, a job. You only do it if–”  
   
He cuts himself off and Gerard groans, kicking his heels against the thin mattress in frustration.  
   
“What the _fuck_ , man, you can tell me. You really think _anything_ you could say could make it awkward right now?”  
   
“Well. Alright.” Frank suddenly seems very interested in his own shoes. “You don’t become a – ” he pauses, his mouth twisting sideways in distaste, “ – a _guardian angel_ , ugh, ’cause someone _makes_ you, and it’s not like you’re stuck with it. You can quit whenever you want. Fuck, it’s not even, like, a real thing. It’s this whole concept you humans pulled out of fuck knows where. It’s something you only do ’cause you _care_ about one specific person. Like, _seriously_ care about them. You have to, or it’s not even worth the time, you know?”  
   
For the second time in as many minutes, Gerard is genuinely speechless, but it doesn’t last long.  
   
“You,” he begins, then stops. “You – fuck. You said I die every time and you keep coming back? That’s, just...” He trails off, shaking his head. He can’t imagine how fucking _painful_ that must be.  
   
Frank half-smiles wryly. “Masochistic?”  
   
Gerard rolls his eyes. “ _No_ , fucker. Jesus, way to ruin the fucking moment.” he swallows, looking down, and then says quietly, “I was gonna go for sort of amazing, actually.”  
   
“You think?”  
   
“Yeah. I kind of do.”  
   
Frank’s doing that glowing thing again, strange light shifting under his skin, and, well, _that_ makes a lotmore sense now. Ironically, this whole insane thing is doing a pretty fantastic job of convincing Gerard that he actually hasn’t been having freaky hallucinations over the last few days – and if he is, he doesn’t want them to stop. He frowns; there’s still something uneasy that won’t stop nagging at him.  
   
“Frank,” he says, slowly, “Who’s – ”  
   
He never finishes his question. Frank’s cell phone rings and Gerard flinches, the pain in his head returning with a vengeance. “Fucking _ow_ ,” he whines, reaching up to clutch at his poor skull as Frank digs into his pocket. Frank raises the phone to his ear and Gerard cringes unhappily at the feeling of something sticky matting his hair. Oh, fucking _seriously_ , that is _so_ monumentally disgusting. Sure, he might forget to shower once (or twice, or three times) in a while, but even _he_ has standards.  
   
He’s so busy being indignant and righteously grossed-out that it takes him a second or two to clock Frank’s expression changing. Frank’s lip curls, his eyes narrow and his hand shakes slightly, tightening around the phone in a death-grip.  
   
“What the _fuck_ ,” he hisses into the phone, “Do _you_ want, motherfucker?”  
   
Gerard closes his mouth. His bitching can wait. This is yet another side of Frank he’s never seen and he can already tell that it is definitely _not_ one he wants to piss off.  
   
Then, Frank laughs, harsh and nasty. “Really? _Really?_ That’s _weak_. You thought you could pull that one on me? _Not_ happening. I’ll fucking _tell_ you why not! Because he’s _right here_ , that’s why. Yes! Like, literally right in front of me! Whatever poor fuck you’ve dragged off the street, you might as well let ’em go. That’s just... that’s pathetic, _seriously_. Well, _I_ don’t know who you’ve got there! Ugh, look, just... wash ’em up and send ’em home. Better luck next time, motherfucker!”  
   
With an air of triumph, Frank stabs the _end call_ button. And then, just like that, he’s back to normal.  
   
Well. As normal as he ever gets.  
   
“What the fuck was _that?_ ” asks Gerard. He’s developing a healthy amount of respect (bordering on fear, if he’s honest) for Frank’s impressive range of personalities.  
   
“Ah. Yeah, about that.” Frank bites his lip. “You were about to ask me about that, right? About what I meant when I said _he_ keeps getting to you.”  
   
Gerard is about to nod, then thinks better of it. “Yeah,” he says instead, unease sinking its claws into his stomach. “Is that what Brendon was talking about? When he said something about you waiting for some guy to turn up?”  
   
“No, moron, he meant _you._ But, uh, anyway. You’re probably not going to like this.”  
   
Gerard groans. “ _Fuck_. It’s, like, a demon with a grudge against me or something, isn’t it? That’s what it is – I don’t keep dying, I keep _being killed_. I _knew_ this was all too good to be true,” he says gloomily, subsiding back down onto the mattress.  
   
“You’re...” Frank pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re. Yeah, that’s pretty close, actually. I mean, he’s not a _demon_. That’s another thing that you guys made up. There’s no such thing as demons. Also, no soulbonding, no guardian angels, no... no fucking celestial revenge for caring too much about a human. Just angels who get disenchanted and get jealous and do stupid shit and fall in love and do everything you do. So long as we’re not, like, starting the Armageddon or something, no one cares what we do.” He shrugs.  
   
“So, this, this guy. He’s another angel?”  
   
“Yeah. But he's not doing this because he hates you. I mean, he _does_ , but that's not really _why_.”  
   
“Right, because _that’s_ reassuring.”  
   
 “Shut up _._ Anyway, I sort of... well, betrayed him, I guess.” It looks for a second like there was more to that, but Frank moves on quickly. “I mean, I think that's still how he sees it, at least. So every time you’re born, I... I try to keep you alive and he tries to kill you.”  
   
“Shit,” says Gerard, reeling slightly. “That’s, um. Fuck, _really?_ How many times has it happened?” Something strikes him. Not a nice something, either. “And how many times has he... uh, you know?”  
   
Frank drags in a slow, deep breath. “Every time,” he says shortly. “Literally every time. But,” he says brightly, “This is the first time since, like, the actual first time I ever met you that you’ve known what’s going on. So that might help.”  
   
There’s something fathomless and desperate just behind Frank’s eyes and Gerard doesn’t push it. He reaches for one of Frank’s hands and squeezes.  
   
“Yeah,” he says softly. “We’ll be alright. So, uh, why was he calling you?”  
   
Frank frowns. “Oh – right. Yeah, that was weird. He told me he had you, like, hostage or whatever, and I told him to fuck off because, you know, you’re _here_. Only, it seems... I don’t know, it’s not really his style, you know?”  
   
Gerard sits up, ignoring the scream of pain in the back of his head. Maybe if he ignores it hard enough, it’ll go away. “So you don’t think it was just to fuck with your head?”  
   
“No. I mean, I guess it _could_ have been, but that was one of his... _pets_ that tried to take you out yesterday night. He must know what happened. He knows that I know you’re not with him, so why is he...?” Frank makes a vague arm gesture and huffs irritably. He’s trying so hard not to seem it but he’s wound tight; on edge. That call fucked with him, no question.  
   
A slow, creeping dread starts to seep into Gerard’s head, like warning bells. Something about pills and snarky texts, but his brain is sluggish and addled by the pain and he can’t quite pin it down. “Frank, what did he say?”  
   
Frank looks at him funny. “What?”  
   
“ _Frank_. What. Did. He. Say?”  
   
“Um. I think it was, like, ‘ _I’ve got a certain Mr. Way here who I think someone at your end might want back_ ’? Something like that. That’s you, right, Way’s your surname? Hey – Gerard?”  
   
Gerard isn’t listening. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, hearing the hysterical edge in his voice because the world is coming apart and it’s all too fast, too much for him to hold it all together. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ Frank, he knew it wasn’t me! That’s _Mikey!_ ”  
   
For a split second, Frank’s face is blank and uncomprehending, then he gets it.  
   
“ _No_ ,” he breathes, horrified. “Your brother. He _didn’t_. _Fuck_. That’s low, even for him. I never thought he’d... fucking _fuck_. Right. Ok. We need to... need to work out how we’re gonna do this. Because I am _not_ letting you die on me this time.”  
   
He gets up and starts pacing again.  
   
“Ok,” he says, talking more to himself than to Gerard. “Ok. I’m not taking you with me because with you _and_ your brother that’s one too many humans for me to protect at once. Fuck, wait, but then I have to leave you here on your own, and he’ll... Ok. So I’ll call someone to come and stay here with you in case _he_ sends someone for you while I’m gone. Who...? Oh. Oh, that could work. He owes me a favour. He just got promoted to Raphael, too. Right. Ok, that’s what we’re doing.” He turns back to Gerard.  
   
“What’s happening?” Gerard asks, trying to breathe deeply, because, fuck, _Mikey_. He wants so badly to believe that it’s all going to be ok, that Frank has a plan.  
   
“Look,” Frank says reassuringly. “It’s all totally under control. I don’t know exactly where he’s keeping your brother, but I’ve known him for fucking _ever_ , I can work it out. I’m gonna call someone to come and keep an eye on you while I’m out looking for him, alright?”  
   
Gerard nods.  
   
“Good. And _whatever happens_ , you _stay here_ , ok? I mean it.”  
   
“I, I will. I’ll stay here,” he promises, and some of the tension leaks out of Frank’s shoulders.  
   
“Damn right you will,” he growls, then drops to his knees next to Gerard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll be back as soon as I fucking can, right? And, look, whatever you do, just – stay safe, alright? I don’t think I could take it. I...”  
   
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he presses a last kiss to Gerard’s open mouth and he’s gone, just a blur and a clatter down the ladder in the corner.  
   
Gerard’s glad he doesn’t get much of a chance to sit and worry before his mystery watchman turns up. He waits a minute or two, trying desperately not to think too hard about anything to avoid giving himself a panic attack. Everything inside his head looks like it’s been taken out, run through a blender, given to a minor surrealist to paint and then put back in. _The good news: there’s a gorgeous, angelic boy who actually_ likes _you. The bad news: your days are numbered and your brother has been kidnapped by a supernatural psychopath._  
   
“Hey, kid! You Frank’s tame human?”  
   
He turns fast, his heart hammering. There’s a guy pulling himself up over the top of the ladder and coming towards him, grinning. His hair’s stringy and filthy, he's in dire need of a shave and a wash and he’s wearing a T-shirt that looks like it might once have been white, several hundred years ago. But for all that, there's just... something. Like Frank, like Brendon, he’s got that same strange glow, only it’s stronger than Gerard’s ever seen it, bright enough to make him want to shield his eyes. It cuts through the grease and grime clinging to the guy and it’s still blinding.  
   
The guy pushes his matted hair off his face and removes his sunglasses, dropping down to sit cross-legged by the mattress. “Bert,” he says, by way of an introduction. “Frankie sent me to keep you safe while he’s out playing superman again. You got a name, princess?”  
   
“Gerard,” he says, and Bert shakes his hand. He’s even warmer than Frank, almost feverish.  
   
“Cool. Nice to meet you again.” He eyes Gerard in a way that’s not unfriendly, but still makes him want to run and hide at the bottom of a very deep hole, somewhere far, far away. “No wonder he’s determined. You’re so _pretty_ this time. Frank’s a lucky motherfucker. Any time you get bored with him, you give me a call, alright?”  
   
He says it in the same way that a normal person would tell you that your shoelace is undone or that they like your sweater, and Gerard doesn’t know quite what the appropriate response is.  
   
“Um,” he says. “Thanks? I think?”  
   
Bert cracks up, his laughter wicked and infectious. “Your fucking _face!_ Nah, nah, just fucking with you. Like I’d _dare_ , Frank’d cut my balls off.” He grins broadly and Gerard suddenly likes him a whole lot more. “So,” he says, and then stops dead, the shit-eating grin dropping off his face. Slowly, slowly, he raises his open hands up to shoulder height and Gerard realizes there’s suddenly a third person in the room.  
   
He’s standing behind Bert, one thin hand resting on Bert’s shoulder, tall and skeletally thin and so impossibly beautiful that Gerard feels dizzy.  
   
“Bert,” he says, in a pleasant voice totally at odds with the expression of blind terror frozen on Bert’s face. “What would _you_ be doing here?”  
   
“Stopping you from getting anywhere _near_ the kid, motherfucker,” growls Bert, something igniting behind his eyes, but he doesn’t turn round or drop his hands.  
   
“ _Really_ ,” says the stranger, and Gerard’s head keeps spinning because that voice is like honey and he _thinks_ he’s petrified but he can’t think properly. “Isn’t that interesting? Because _I_ just got a call from Frank, telling _me_ to come and make sure _you_ didn’t hurt him.”  
   
“ _Hurt_ him?” scoffs Bert, but his eyes betray his false confidence. “Why the fuck would I do that? I _like_ this body. _I_ don’t wanna lose any of my fucking limbs, dickhead.”  
   
“Language like that gets you nowhere, Bert.” The stranger’s eyes focus on Gerard and his voice turns so pleading and earnest that Gerard could cry. “Gerard. Frank told you, didn’t he? About the _danger_ you’re in from him?”  
   
Gerard swallows, his stomach dropping. “From _him?_ ” He feels sick; he’d liked Bert. He’d _trusted_ him. But then again, his instincts have never been good. The more he understands of what’s going on, the more terrified he feels. The thin man nods solemnly, his dark eyes dropping down to Bert and suddenly brimming with disgust.  
   
“From him,” he confirms. “You’re lucky I got here when I did.”  
   
It all happens so quickly. He makes an odd, jerky hand gesture, and Bert just... crumples, like a paper doll, his eyes rolling back noiselessly. There’s no flash of light, no scream, and that somehow makes it worse.  
   
Gerard jerks back from Bert’s prone form with an embarrassing squeaking noise he will later deny ever having made. “Is he, is he _dead?_ ”  
   
“No, no. It’d take more than that. Just knocked out for a while. I’m William, by the way.” William nudges Bert’s boneless arm out of the way with his foot and takes Gerard’s hand. Gerard flinches; William’s warmer than any of the others, almost burning him and leaving a faint red mark on his palm. He’s dressed almost _too_ normally, in a faded t-shirt and eye-wateringly tight skinny jeans, but no one has to tell Gerard that he’s by far the strongest... _angel_ , or whatever, that he’s met so far.  
   
“Well, fuck, thanks – I mean...” he trails off, trying not to think about what would have happened if William hadn’t come when he did. William sort of scares him a bit, but at least he seems to be on his side. He can feel his heart thrumming like a bird’s, making it hard to see straight.  
   
“Not at all,” he says mildly. “Frank and I go back a long, long way.”  
   
“Yeah?” This, Gerard thinks, could be an excellent opportunity to snoop a bit into Frank’s past while simultaneously distracting himself from worrying about what could be happening to Mikey right now.  
   
“A _long_ way.” William smiles sympathetically, tipping his head to one side in an odd, bird-like gesture. “It isn’t really fair, is it? The way Frank remembers it all? You still don’t even know who everyone is.”  
   
“Yeah! Dude, I was totally just thinking that! Um. Hey – William? You alright?”  
   
William looks almost... sympathetic? Regretful?  
   
“I am _so_ sorry about this,” he says, then his face splits into a terrifying grin, all sharp teeth and cruel exhilaration. “Actually, you know something? That’s a lie. I’m not sorry at all.”  
   
His hand moves again and, for the second time in as many days, everything disappears.

  
 **__**

.four

  
Gerard’s first coherent thought when he comes around is that Frank is going to be _so_ mad at him.  
   
His next one is that he’s tied to a chair, and there’s a murderous and probably psychopathic angel somewhere around who wants him dead and won’t hesitate to kill him.  
   
Again.  
   
Oh, God, what the fuck _happened_ to him? To his _life?_ He feels hysteria rising in his throat and chokes it back. Deep breaths, deep breaths. For Frank. For Mikey. Hell, for Bob and Bert and Brendon and everyone else who’s ever expressed the _remotest_ interest in seeing him alive again. This is alright; he can do this. If he can stall, keep William talking for long enough, maybe Frank will get back in time. But at least it’s Mikey that Frank’s looking for now – Mikey was never meant to be caught up in any of this; he deserves to get out of it first.  
   
Gerard takes one last calming breath and opens his eyes.  
   
He’s still in the warehouse attic. His head is still pounding and he suspects that nasty sticky feeling on his scalp is still dried blood, which is still _so_ gross, but at least he doesn’t feel much worse than he did earlier. His arms and shoulders ache already from being stretched around behind him and he’s got a sneaking suspicion that it’s duct tape he can feel around his wrists and ankles, which hurts like a bitch to peel off, but he’s trying not to think too far ahead here. He’s alive, for the moment, and not seriously hurt. Good. That’s good.  
   
William is sitting opposite him, draped gracefully over a packing crate with an expression of mild interest on his face.  
   
Not so good. Also no sign of Bert, which is probably _really_ not good. Gerard’s stomach twists guiltily and he hopes that Bert isn’t hurt or worse because of him.  
   
“How’s your head?” William enquires, all concern and big eyes, which, no. By all means go about and kidnap people’s brothers and be a dastardly villain if that’s your thing, thinks Gerard. But pretending to be _nice_ like that is just a truly unnecessary headfuck that he could do without. Even from a normal person, it wouldn’t be quite so bad, but he suspects William has some kind of freaky angel mojo thing going on that’s stopping him being able to think. He _wants_ to believe him, trust him, even now, which is fucking ridiculous, and he thinks mind control is a dirty trick to pull.  
   
“Sore,” he says, honestly, because he can’t see how lying about it would improve the situation. William nods understandingly.  
   
“Of course it is,” he croons, that voice lapping at Gerard’s mind and making him sleepy. “It’s a shame it had to come to this at all. It’s so...” he wrinkles his nose delicately. “Inelegant. It isn’t even really your fault. Well. Well, it _is_ , you just don’t remember.”  
   
“Does that mean I don’t get the blame?” asks Gerard – he doesn’t think for a minute that he’s going to get out that easily, because there’s fucking _historical precedent_ that says otherwise, but he can’t resist.  
   
William throws his head back and laughs. “Brave, aren’t you? Like always. No, _Gerard_ , it doesn’t.”  
   
Well, it’s not like he was expecting anything. All of his barely-repressed panic has drained away and been replaced with a dull, flat calm. It’s unsettling; he’d rather have the fear back. At least that was _logical_. Fuck knows, he’s got plenty to be scared _of_.  
   
There’s a long silence and Gerard squirms, because, what the _fuck_ , this is so not the time to be bothered by a socially awkward situation when there are bigger things to worry about like, you know, not dying. Plus, William’s doing this really unnerving thing of just _staring_ at him, like a cat watching a mouse, figuring him out and committing him to memory and maybe imagining what he’ll sound like when he screams.  
   
And, there. _That’s_ what it takes to bring it all home to him. _Now_ he wants to panic and he’s thinking that, yeah, this actually wasn’t better after all.  
   
“So,” he says, his mouth suddenly dry. “You _are_ going to, um.”  
   
“Kill you? Yes.”  
   
“Oh.” There isn’t much he can say to that. “Well. _Really?_ ”  
   
William examines his nails. “Yes.”  
   
“But what if Frank comes back?”  
   
William shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry. I’ll end up killing you one way or another. I always do. I’d say it’s nothing personal, but...” he trails off, leaving Gerard in no doubt that it’s _absolutely_ something personal. There’s something about William’s supreme confidence, that unruffled calm, that’s somehow worse than if he was waving a gun around and frothing at the mouth. A small frown creases his perfect forehead.  
   
“I don’t know how I should do it this time, though,” he says. “After this long, it’s getting difficult to think of something _creative_ every time.”  
   
He gives Gerard an aggrieved look that, for about a millisecond, has Gerard about to apologize, before he remembers the _context_ and closes his mouth stubbornly.  
   
“Any ideas?” William says, and Gerard can only blink incredulously at him. He sighs. “I didn’t think so. I don’t know; it’s going to be hard to top last time.”  
   
Gerard is torn between wanting to know and wanting to puke.  
   
“I called him up,” William explains nonchalantly. “While I was doing it. So he could hear you dying. I thought that was pretty good, actually. Sort of poetic. Your last breaths, you know? I mean, he was screaming and crying and all that, which sort of ruined the moment, but apart from that...”  
   
The look he gives Gerard invites him to agree. What Gerard would like to say at this point is something roughly along the lines of _you sick motherfucker_ , but he decides to keep his mouth shut. William, he realizes belatedly, is _insane_. Certifiable. A genuine basket-case.  
   
He looks unhappily at Gerard. “You’ve gone all quiet. That’s no fun. Did I scare you?”  
   
Gerard chooses not to answer. Instead, he grits out, “Frank’s going to fucking _kill_ you.”  
   
William smirks again. “No, he won’t.” He stands, towering over Gerard. “I don’t know how much he told you. I mean, how much do you need to know? You’re some kind of...” he waves a hand languidly. “Some kind of glorified pet, or something, I’m sure he didn’t bother telling you _everything_. It’d be like explaining Kant to a Labrador.”  
   
Gerard resists the urge to pout, because, seriously, what is with this arrogant douchebag? Gerard has totally fucking read Kant, thank you very much.  
   
He isn’t so sure what William’s saying is true, though. Because, yeah, maybe he’s only human, but from what he’s heard, Frank’s gone through a _lot_ for him. It flies in the face of everything most of the fucking world ever told him, but he must be worth _something_. William hasn’t finished yet, though.  
   
“Anyway,” he says. “Frank and I, we were... he _adored_ me. I made him who he is,” he says, pride coloring his voice. “Or who he _was_ , until you turned up. You made him _question_ everything I’d taught him. Everything was _fine_ ; we could have ruled the world. And then... _you_.”  
   
And suddenly, it all makes sense.  
   
Gerard remembers Frank’s face crumpling unhappily – _there’s still, like, ten percent of me that’s still so fucking in love with him I can hardly stand it –_ and he thinks he might throw up. _This_ is – wow, _this_ is his competition. He tries not to picture himself standing next to William, but it’s too late, the damage is done; he’s soft and pale and his stomach creases when he bends down, and William is sinuous and whipcord thin and beautiful. He thinks he might as well crawl off and die in a hole somewhere because, what the _fuck_ , he never had a chance.  
   
Or did he? He thinks for a second or two about all the shit Frank’s put himself through – for _him_ , and it lights him up. Maybe.  
   
“Stop it!” William snaps, glaring. “It’s not like it’s something to be _proud of_. Everyone knows how you did it. It was _coincidence_ that it was you; you just happened to... be there. There were a million other dirty little human _sluts_ it could have been instead!”  
   
 “Oh, that’s _real_ mature, man. Congratulations, seriously, that’s like, ninth-grader level,” Gerard snorts, surprising himself again. He has literally no idea what he’s doing and no idea what he’s going to say next. He’s also got _absolutely_ no idea what murky hole in his psyche this brave/suicidal streak has crawled out of, but as far as he’s concerned it can hurry up and crawl right back in there before it gets him killed.  
   
“Shut _up_ ,” spits William. “You just _happened_ to be in the right place at the right time. That’s _all it was._ ”  
   
Gerard sniggers, and then, like a light turning off, all William’s anger is gone, just like that. He smiles, and ok, wow, _that_ is fucking scary. Gerard’s laughter dies in his throat and William moves a few steps closer, brushing his thumb over Gerard’s cheekbone.  
   
“You can laugh,” he murmurs, “It won’t help. You’ll be dead soon and Frank will go back to being miserable, lonely and guilty. But – see, this is the best part – _he won’t come after me_. He never does. Gerard, at the end of the day, you were just another willing human. You have to understand that.” His eyes are huge and Gerard feels like he’s falling into them. William straightens and moves back slightly. “I mean,” he says coolly, “You must have been a good fuck. That was why he liked you. But then, there’s _me_.”  
   
He gestures to himself like that explains everything. “I mean, let’s be _reasonable_. He doesn’t _love_ you or anything. You’re _human_.”  
   
Ok, _that_ sort of hurts, but it barely registers against the blind terror washing over him in waves. William smiles blandly at him. “I wouldn’t do this,” he says, “But Frank’s going to come back one day. To me, I mean. And that’s not going to happen with _you_ getting in the way.”  
   
Gerard remembers Frank’s face when he’d picked up his phone earlier and _knows_ it isn’t true. His heart is palpitating nervously in his chest and he’s positive William must be able to hear it. “What if he doesn’t?” he breathes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, antagonising William is so _monumentally_ stupid, but he can feel something close to hatred burning his stomach like acid and it’s just another thing he can’t quite explain and, well, if he dies here then it won’t be the first time. “What if he doesn’t? What if you keep waiting, and he doesn’t come back?”  
   
He doesn’t see William draw his hand back, only feels the vicious, backhanded crack that snaps his head to the side and makes his vision swim. He blinks, dazed, and then there’s a hot hand on his face again, spidery fingers digging into his cheeks and forcing him to look into their owner’s eyes.  
   
“You know what?” he hisses, blurring at the edges in front of Gerard, “I don’t think you’re funny anymore.”  
   
Dread settles in Gerard’s stomach as it dawns on him that this is going to _hurt_. William tuts. “So _loyal_ ,” he hums. “You hardly know him.”  
   
Gerard twists his head away and spits blood onto the floor, closing his eyes.  
   
“Go to hell.”  
   
A sharp yank at his hair; he flinches.  
   
“That was _rude_. You _do_ know who you’re talking to, right?”  
   
He doesn’t give William the satisfaction of opening his eyes, but his blood runs cold at the soft, unassuming _shhhhh_ of metal on metal. Oh, this _isn’t happening_. Where the fuck was he even _hiding_ that in those jeans? It’s all some mad dream and any second now Gerard’s going to wake up, and Frank’s going to be knocking at his door with a cup of coffee and a glib comment. He wants to disappear inside himself, shut down from the inside out so he won’t feel a thing.  
   
He still feels the incandescent sting across his cheek and cries out in shock and pain, eyes flying open. He can feel something warm and sticky sliding over his skin and bile rises in his throat. God, and he’d thought he was terrified before; that was _nothing_ , how’s he going to deal with –  
   
 _Don’t think about it_.  
   
William puts two uncomfortably hot fingers under Gerard’s chin and pushes his head up, considering. Gerard doesn’t fight him. His blood is screaming in his ears, thumping treacherously loudly in his jugular.  
   
“Please,” he says, his voice cracking, surprising himself again with something he hadn’t thought he’d wanted to say. “Please. You don’t have to – I’ll – ”  
   
William rolls his eyes. “Oh, _spare_ me,” he groans. “And I thought you were annoying before.”  
   
Gerard stops. William smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “ _There_ ,” he says. “That’s better.” He eyes Gerard contemplatively. “I think I’m just going to go for the shock value of the visual, you know?” he announces, toying idly with the knife. “You’re so _pale_. Think of the contrast.”  
   
Gerard remembers saying almost exactly the same thing about something he’d painted once, rich, vivid crimson against bleached skin, and a small, terrified sob escapes him. Every slasher flick he’s ever watched hangs in his mind, mocking him.  
   
“Stay still,” says William blandly, raising the knife again, “And this won’t... actually, never mind. It’s going to hurt whether you stay still or not.”  
   
“Drop the knife.”  
   
The voice is low and deceptively calm and Gerard turns so fast he nearly blacks out again, his heart thrumming, elated, because he _knows_ that voice –  
   
It’s too fast for him to follow, but the next thing he knows, Frank is _this_ close to William, the air between them humming with something chaotic and destructive. William towers over Frank, but Frank looks _furious_ in a way that blows Gerard’s mind slightly and suddenly Gerard doesn’t think much of William’s chances.  
   
Frank’s lip curls and he snarls like an animal – a low, guttural noise that ripples through the air and sends shivers clawing up Gerard's spine. Frank and William pull apart slightly and start to circle each other like sharks, and Frank’s nasty, feral growl becomes a coarse stream of rough, ugly words in what it takes Gerard several seconds to realize is Latin. The unearthly glow gets brighter, pulsing and shaking like radioactive wildfire under his skin and he stops dead, sliding back into English.  
   
“... _spondeo ante Deo_ , I will rip your _fucking_ throat out.” A wave of blinding, incandescent hatred rolls off Frank and hits Gerard, making him gag and his vision bleed white.  
   
“You _wouldn’t_ and you know it. That’s just you all over, isn’t it? Can’t let go, can’t move forwards...” There’s a flash of movement and Frank comes away gasping and clutching his side, and anger boils up in Gerard, washing the last of the fear away. “Can’t make a _decision_.”  
   
“Look who’s fucking _talking_ ,” spits Frank, struggling for breath. “What the fuck was with kidnapping his _brother?_ Fucking classy, even for you. Took me all of five minutes to find him, too. Didn’t even kill Bert – losing your touch, motherfucker?”  
   
They both seem to have forgotten Gerard exists, and he’s quite happy for that to remain the case for now, but he slumps forwards with relief. _Mikey_. _Bert._ Everyone’s alright. No one’s dead because of him.  
   
“Made you look, though, didn’t it?” smirks William. Frank makes a noise no human is capable of and lunges for him, and Gerard distinctly hears something cracking and then a mindless howl of pain and rage – he doesn’t know who from. It’s like the slow-motion car crash you can’t tear your eyes away from; he doesn’t want to watch but his muscles won’t work, won’t let him look away.  
   
“You won’t do it,” drawls William, only sounding slightly breathless, and slows down just enough for Gerard to see his long fingers curling around Frank’s throat. Frank doesn’t answer, just twists violently, shaking him off and then they’re moving too fast for Gerard to follow again. He feels sick with sheer terror, more than when he thought _he’d_ been going to die. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been fighting, time has stretched out like gum, this is _agony_ –  
   
Then there’s a flat, dull _thud_ and it all happens very quickly after that.  
   
William is pinned against the floor. Frank is straddling his hips, and has one hand splayed against William’s chest. They’re both breathing hard, both wide-eyed with shock, both not quite able to believe this is really happening.  
   
“Frank,” says William, in a voice Gerard’s heard people use with frightened animals, low and steady despite his quick, uneven breathing. “Frank, _stop_. This is insane. Come on, think about it, we could – ”  
   
Frank shakes his head, slow and sad and sure. “We couldn’t. You know that. If – fuck, if it could still be... like it was, it would be.”  
   
“Frank!” There’s an edge of panic seeping into William’s voice now. “Think about what you’re _doing!_ I just – he’s – ” He lets out a deep, shaky breath, and Gerard can see those big, pleading eyes. “Remember who we were,” he says, his voice strained like he’s holding back tears.  
   
Frank shakes his head again, harder this time, like he’s trying to convince himself, and the watery sun lights up the bright, wet streaks down his face. “You wanted me to make a fucking decision, right?”  
   
“Well, yes, but not _this_ one! Frank, I meant the _right_ decision!” William’s voice is high and taut and genuinely scared.  
   
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the ragged sounds of their breathing. Gerard feels uncomfortable, almost dirty, like he’s watching something that isn’t his to see; he wants to turn away and give them some privacy, this feels so _intimate._  
   
“It’s never going to fucking go back to how it was,” says Frank quietly. “You know that.” He sounds like he’s carrying the weight of the fucking world on his shoulders; worn and tired, resigned. “I don’t know – don’t know what to say. I’m fucking _sorry_ , you – you know I wish it could have all been ok again, but you won’t fucking let go and I – I have to. Fuck, stop _looking_ at me like that!” he snaps, his voice and hands shaking.  
   
“Like what?”  
   
“Like _I’m_ the one breaking _your_ fucking heart.”  
   
William starts to protest again, but Frank doesn’t seem to hear. “Gerard,” he says warningly, “Look the other way.”  
   
It takes Gerard a split second too long to process that and he isn’t quite fast enough. It’s so quick, barely long enough for him to see what happens, but it burns itself onto the back of his eyelids and he knows it’s going to haunt his nightmares for years to come. With a final broken apology, Frank raises his hand – and sinks it _through_ William’s chest. By this time, Gerard has screwed his eyes shut so tightly he’s seeing stars, but it doesn’t stop him hearing the sickening crunching noise or the terrible, animal scream that cuts right through him and shakes his bones. Even with his eyes closed, he feels the flare of blazing light and heat and curls in on himself, his mind a blank space of utter horror. It feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, aftershocks shaking him to pieces. Everything blurs inside his head, distorting in every direction at once, and this time it’s a relief when it all just _stops_.  
   
   


+     +     +

   
   
Waking up with no recollection of what happened or where he is? It’s starting to get really fucking old, thinks Gerard, as he drifts haphazardly back towards consciousness. Why do people keep knocking him out? Does he have a fucking target on his back, or is it just some kind of occupational hazard? And – fucking _hell_ , that hurts. He whimpers pathetically, grasping at the blissful oblivion as it slips away from him, wishing he could go back to being unconscious, comatose, brain-dead, _anything_ to stop it fucking _hurting_. Hot, stinging tears squeeze out of his eyes and he squirms on the spot, desperate for it all to go away. After a minute or two, the agony fades slightly, and he risks opening an eye.  
   
That helps. He remembers where he is, at least, but then a wave of nausea rises up and he closes the eye again quickly. Someone’s untied him, he realizes; the dull rings of pressure around his wrists and ankles are gone. He lets out a deep, slow breath, waiting as the details fill themselves in. Frayed tempers and tears and – Frank. Oh, Christ, _Frank_. Heartbroken and so fucking _brave_ it blows his mind. Slowly, he opens his eyes again.  
   
Frank is kneeling over William’s body, his shoulders shaking slightly, his head bowed, like the definition of utter grief. His hands are knotted together in his lap, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and Gerard doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so fucking _sad_.  
   
Screw _his_ suffering, Frank needs someone to hold on to. Slowly, unsteadily, he stands and stumbles across the space between them. He drops down next to Frank, curling his legs under him and not saying a word, not pushing. He reaches out and rests his hand between Frank’s shoulder blades, rubbing small circles into his skin like he used to with Mikey. Frank slumps against him, and the sudden upsurge of protectiveness hits him like a punch in the stomach.  
   
He opens his mouth to say something comforting, but nothing comes to him. He’s got no idea how _he’d_ cope with this; it’s so much _bigger_ than anything he could even begin to understand.  
   
“It’s – it’s fucking _over_ ,” Frank chokes out. “After all this fucking time. I don’t...”  
   
Gerard pulls him in close, Frank’s face pressing into his shoulder. Gerard remembers too late that he really, _really_ doesn’t want to look at William, and the sight of him – eyes wide and sightless, mouth slack, chest all but destroyed like something in there exploded – twists his stomach and makes his hands shake. He tightens his grip on Frank, feeling violent sobs wracking his body and just wishing there was something he could fucking _do_.  
   
“It’s over,” Gerard agrees, hearing his own voice like he’s underwater. “I’m here,” he adds, feeling like it’s the right thing to do, although he couldn’t say why. “Shhh, shhh. You’ll be alright. You fucking did it. I’m here.”  
   
“You are,” says Frank, and his weak, watery chuckle makes everything hurt a bit less. “God, you really fucking _are_. I’m gonna wake up in a minute, though, so I’m not getting my hopes up.”  
   
It’s really not the moment for some inane maybe-I-should-pinch-you-then comment, and Gerard doesn’t quite know what to say, so he just holds on and doesn’t let go.  
   
“I’m here,” he says again, as much to himself as Frank. “You fucking did it. You won. I’m here.”  
   
   


+     +     +

  


Afterwards, Frank and Gerard had staggered from the warehouse back to Gerard’s apartment, dragging their feet and leaning on each other. Frank had hesitated outside Gerard’s door, and Gerard had understood, and had led him up to the roof. They’d sat there in silence, watching the day break, shoulder-to-shoulder and sharing Gerard’s last smoke.  
   
When it’s fully light and they’re both damp and cold, Frank leans over, murmurs something soft and broken that could be _thank you_ , and nuzzles his face into the curve between Gerard’s neck and his shoulder. Gerard draws a sharp breath as he feels Frank’s mouth ghost over his neck.  
   
“Frank,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding shut.  
   
Frank makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “Mmh?”  
   
“Frank. I don’t...”  
   
One of Frank’s hands snakes under Gerard’s t-shirt. “Can we?” he says, barely a whisper. “Please. I think – I just need...” he trails off, his eyes huge and imploring, and what Gerard says next takes a Herculanean effort of concentrated will.  
   
“Stop. Look at me. Just – do you think it’ll _help?_ ”  
   
Frank frowns slightly, but he doesn’t pull back or take his hands off Gerard. “What?”  
   
“This. If you – ” he swallows; Jesus _Christ_ , he is such a good person, “If you... fuck me or whatever now, is it going to make you feel better? I just – I don’t want it to be for the, the wrong reasons.”  
   
He looks down, feeling himself blushing scarlet, because, fuck, back to the acting-like-a-teenaged-girl phase; just _fantastic_.  
   
“Fuck _you_ ,” mumbles Frank, burying his face in Gerard’s shoulder again. “You’re right. Ugh. I am going to get _so_ sick of you.”  
   
“You won’t,” says Gerard, a little smugly, and then, scrunching his nose up, “At least let me wash the blood out of my hair first, alright? Unless that’s some kind of kink for you, or something. In which case... yeah, actually, still no.”  
   
He thinks he can feel Frank smiling.  
   
“See what I mean?” he says indistinctly. “Again with the being right.”  
   
They’re sitting side-by-side, legs dangling over the edge of the rusted fire escape, so the best Gerard can do is an awkward, one-armed sidelong hug, but it’s good enough, and they sit in easy silence.  
   
“Hey,” Gerard says softly a little while later, bumping his shoulder against Frank’s and catching the weirdness of the role-reversal. “You doing ok?”  
   
Frank smiles weakly. “Not too bad, I guess,” he says. “Just. I don’t know, numb? Like, numb with shock. I mean... In all this time, he’s the one thing that was always the same, always fucking _there_ , and now he’s... you know, not. I mean, I fucking hated him,” he draws in a shaky breath, his eyes sparkling. “But, you know. Still. I’ll be alright, I think.” He nods decisively, _making_ it true.  
   
Gerard wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer, looking out at the blazing, pinkish sky hanging over the city, and prays that Frank’s going to be alright. Fuck knows, he deserves it.  
   
“Come on, then,” he says, eventually, when he feels Frank shivering. He gets up slowly, wincing as his head pounds and his knees click and every muscle protests. “Inside. You’re no good to anyone if you get sick, right?”  
   
“You’re fucking telling _me_ ,” says Frank, smiling Gerard’s favourite goofy smile even through his chattering teeth, and that’s when Gerard _knows_ he’s going to be alright.   
    
    
    
   


**_.epilogue_ **

   
   
This is the part that Gerard still finds more insane than anything else: _life goes on_. Frank wears Gerard’s clothes and argues with him about what constitutes a nutritionally balanced breakfast, Mikey rolls his eyes when Gerard tries to make sure he’s ok, because he’s “ _Just fine, Gerard, Jesus, who are you, our mom? Fucking knock it_ off _already!_ ”, Brendon beams like he’s on something whenever they walk into the Ark and has earnest discussions with Gerard about coffee, and Bert shows up from time to time being dickish-but-hilarious in a way that Gerard thinks he could really get to like. Hell, Gerard’s mom still calls to make sure he’s eating his vegetables.  
   
In fact, everything is almost distressingly normal. Infinitely more awesome, maybe, but... normal. Gerard doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or let down.  
   
“Asshole,” says a voice matter-of-factly from behind him, “You’d better not be thinking about wearing that t-shirt.”  
   
“Why not?” protests Gerard. “It’s clean. Kind of.”  
   
“Ok, two things,” says Frank, darting forwards and plucking the offending t-shirt out of Gerard’s hands. “One: no. Your definition of clean is not remotely similar to a normal person’s. You haven’t washed this since I’ve been here. That’s, like, a _month_. That is not _kind of clean_. And, two, it has paint on it.”  
   
“Most of my clothes have paint on them,” Gerard says, the bathroom mirror showing him his own hangdog face.  
   
“Yeah, but it’s a different color than the paint on your jeans,” Frank points out.  
   
Gerard looks down at his jeans and is forced to admit that this is true. “It looks artistic?” he tries, half-heartedly.  
   
“No,” corrects Frank, but he’s grinning. “It looks like you’re _trying_ to be artistic. And, _three_ – ”  
   
“You said there were two things!”  
   
“Well, I lied.”  
   
“You,” says Gerard, consciously trying to refrain from pouting, “Are the _worst_ angel. The _worst_. I don’t even – mmph!”  
   
The rest of his t-shirt related sulk is derailed by Frank literally throwing himself at Gerard and kissing the hell out of him, and Gerard decides that whatever he’d been going to say really wasn’t important.  
   
“Three,” says Frank again, his voice slightly muffled, “I’d only have to make you take it off anyway.”  
   
“ _Such_ a dork,” says Gerard affectionately, then makes a little gasping noise as Frank mouths at that spot just under his ear.  
   
“You fucking love it,” Frank growls, grinning against Gerard’s neck, and Gerard thinks, yeah. Definitely relieved.  
   
   


+     +     +

  
   
“Jesus – holy _fuck_ , do that again – fuck, Frank, you’re so – hnng!”  
   
Gerard makes a garbled noise as Frank’s tongue flicks over the head of Gerard’s dick and lingers for a second on the slit before wrapping around his length and sinking down. Frank is summer-warm, and Gerard moans as Frank begins to bob his head, sloppy and enthusiastic. His lips are stretched wide and spit-slicked, and when he pulls off with an obscene wet noise, Gerard lets out a little whine at the loss. Frank grins up at him and runs a finger up the inside of Gerard’s thigh, and Gerard’s hips buck forwards.  
   
“Fuck?” Frank offers, his voice rough and shot. Jesus, he could be suggesting that Gerard shave his head or something right now and Gerard would still think it was a good idea. Gerard’s answer isn’t so much a word as a _noise_ , and Frank smirks like the cruel fucker he is.  
   
“What was that?” he hums, practically dripping with feigned innocence and looking like – well, like sex.  
   
“Fucking – Frank, come on, _please?_ ”  
   
Frank sighs theatrically and Gerard twitches as the warm air ghosts over his cock. “Fine,” huffs Frank, but he’s smirking in that way that Gerard’s brain is already coming to associate with dirty, dirty things. “But only because it’s you.”  
   
He stretches over to Gerard’s nightstand and rummages for the lube and condoms with shaky hands. Gerard licks his lips; there’s a part of him that still half-expects to wake up at some point. Frank is luminous, breathtaking – dead center between pure and filthy as he rolls the condom on and thumbs the cap on the lube, and Gerard doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to this. But then Frank’s hands are nudging his legs apart, gentle and insistent, and there’s a slick, hot finger pressing into him and that train of thought is _gone_. Gerard rocks against his hand, hearing little soft _ah_ noises that he thinks must be him because Frank’s mouth is moving, talking.  
   
“Jesus, _look_ at you, Gee, you’re – fuck, can’t believe you’re really still here – ’m so fucking lucky…”  
   
“Shit, _I_ can’t believe – ahh – can’t believe you think _you’re_ the lucky one,” Gerard manages to say. He considers it an achievement that he can still form coherent sentences at all now two of Frank’s fingers are inside him, sinking deeper and deeper. He opens his mouth again to say something, maybe about how incredibly good Frank looks, half-debauched and gorgeous, but then Frank crooks his fingers and whatever Gerard had been going to say comes out as a rough, drawn out _ohhh_. Frank shivers visibly.  
   
“You have no idea,” he says fervently, “What you sound like when you do that, Jesus _fuck_. If I come before I’m even in you then it’s your fault, fucker.”  
   
Gerard snorts. “I’m taking that – oh, fuck, _there_ – as a compliment. Fuck, you look so good, god, so fucking gorgeous – hey, Frank? You alright?”  
   
Frank’s fingers are gone and he’s sitting back on his heels, biting his lip, troubled. “You know,” he says, looking down, “I won’t – I might not always look like this. This whole human bodies thing, we shouldn’t even be able to do it. It’s sort of... clumsy. Like, we burn through them; that’s why we’re always warm. But we have to – change, sometimes.”  
   
He looks almost shy, and it strikes Gerard what a useless pair they make. Frank picks _now_ of all times to get all embarrassed – his fingers were literally _just_ in Gerard’s ass; aren’t they past all that? Gerard frowns, thrown by the non-sequitur and the fact that he’s still as hard as a fucking rock. “Right, I get that, but why – ? _Oh_ , fucking seriously? You think I’m not gonna want you if you fucking look different or something?”  
   
Frank won’t meet his eyes, and does a weird little half-shrug thing. “I could be hideous,” he says, but his smile isn’t entirely convincing. Gerard groans, sits up and pulls him in for a messy kiss.  
   
“I wouldn’t give a shit,” he says firmly. “Not if you were still you. Are you gonna fuck me or not?”  
   
Frank grins for real this time, pushing Gerard back down and whispering in his ear as his fingers slide back in. “You’re always different,” he murmurs, running his other hand up Gerard’s side. “I get to find out what makes you scream _every time_.”  
   
Gerard makes a strangled noise that bears no resemblance to any existing word. “ _Jesus_ , Frank,” he chokes out. Frank huffs a soft, pleased laugh.  
   
“Enough?” he asks, slipping his fingers out and running one lightly around Gerard’s entrance. Gerard nods breathlessly.  
   
“Fuck, yes, come on – please – ”  
   
Frank lines himself up and Gerard feels the hot, blunt press of his cock against him. “’M ready,” he says breathlessly, aware that he’s babbling and so completely past caring. “’M so ready, come on, I – _oh_ , god, like that, so good, Frank...”  
   
Frank’s eyes are half closed as he starts to thrust in and out, and Gerard can’t take his eyes off him. He’s glowing again, radiant, and hot in every sense of the word. Frank’s rhythm picks up and Gerard splays his legs a little wider, knowing he’s closer than he should be, knowing it won’t be long.  
   
“Amazing – fuck, Gerard,” Frank pants, and Gerard’s breath catches at the way Frank says his name, like a fucking benediction.  
   
“Gonna – oh my god, fuck, gonna – ” Gerard warns. Frank fucks him harder, faster, and Gerard comes with a wrecked, desperate half-shout.  
   
“ _Fuck_ , didn’t even touch you, god, so hot, I – _nngh!_ ” Frank’s hips buck one last time and he’s coming, babbling senselessly as he rides out his aftershocks, and Gerard is so head-over-heels it isn’t even funny.  
   
   


+     +     +

  
   
Half an hour later, they’re still sprawled on the bed, loose-limbed and fucked-out, and Frank looks over at Gerard.  
   
“So,” he begins, straight-faced. “I started looking for my own apartment...”  
   
That’s as far as he gets before dissolving into uncontrollable laughter that rattles Gerard’s heart and sets him off too. “Oh, man,” he wheezes, “I was so sure I was gonna get all the way through that!”  
   
“You totally had me for, like, a _second_ there, man,” sniggers Gerard. “You’re nevermoving out, are you?”  
   
Frank concedes with a shrug, and lapses into a renewed bout of giggles. “No,” he says, cheerfully, “I’m here as long as you want me. Your _face_ , though...” he cracks up again, nuzzling against Gerard, and the warm, reassuring weight of him gives Gerard goosebumps.  
   
“Seriously, though,” he says, after a while longer, his eyes turning dark and solemn. “You’re still only, like, twenty-one, right? You kind of had this whole thing, like, forced on you. If you wanna...” he pauses, looking down at his hands, his mouth twisting like it’s physically painful for him to say. “If you wanna... like, _date_ other people, then – ”  
   
“Wait, wait. You have _got_ to be shitting me. Frank, you just fuckedme and I came without you even touching my dick. You were there for that, I swear. What part of that did you get ‘I wanna date other people’ from?”  
   
Just to make his point, Gerard leans in and kisses that stupid look right off Frank’s stupid face.  
   
Frank doesn’t seem to mind and Gerard thinks that, actually, his life is sort of fucking incredible.


End file.
